Commencing Respect Elimination...Now

Hey, you over there. Yes, you. Shhh, come here. I’ve got a story to tell you…but it’s a wee bit personal and entirely humiliating, so I’d rather not shout it out. If you’d rather not hear about the…uhmm…ins and outs of this story…I suggest you end our little talk, right here.


No? You want to hear all about it? Well, let me tell you. “Dignity” is no longer a word that I am personally acquainted with. “Why is that?” You say. Well, I had to go to the Doctor this morning. A fun little excursion of which repeating, will be prioritized on my list around…oh, I don’t know….french kissing a warthog. How about that. Yes, that sounds about right, I do believe this experience will be repeated right around the time I have a juicy make-out session with Pumba, himself. So never. Is all I’m saying.

I’m going to share with you two key elements of background that you can firmly file under, This Blog No Longer Has Boundaries.

Key Element #1 – I am very, very skittish about pooping in public. Can’t do it. Well, I can…I am physically capable of pooping in public, fine. But mentally, I think I’d rather kiss that there warthog. I realize that everyone’s crap stinks. I get it. But I have this crippling fear of the embarrassment of being walked in on when I’m the one emitting that aroma. The feeling, to me, is the equivalent of walking all the way across a school gym FULL of students of all ages (including the boy that you’ve had a desperate crush on since you were five) with your dress tucked into your undies underneath…and a teacher running behind you urgently trying to catch you to pull your dress out and cover your bum…when you’re in third grade (this may or may not have been me. I admit to nothing. Except it totally was me and ohmyword, I died. Came back to life, threw up…and died again.). Crippling. I hate the idea of grossing someone out. As if pooping doesn’t already feel gross enough…particularly after about 3 cups of very strong coffee…and a bran muffin. There’s just something horribly vulnerable about making things STANK…and having someone else know that you’re the cause. It erodes at least three solid levels of respect, minimum. So all that to say, I hold it. To a very painful degree. I know for a fact that I can control my bowel movements for 7 days. SEVEN. And that’s without any level of post pregnancy pain or anything along those lines (and speaking of which? The more I read about that stuff? We’re adopting!).


Key Element #2 – Holy cow, I’m about to share a LOT…I need to psych myself up a bit. Deep breaths. Deep breaths. Okay. I’ve been losing (what looks like) an incredible amount of blood when I’ve gone to the bathroom (you know, pooped) over the last month. And because of our insane schedules over the weekends and my “inability” to go at work…I’ve been going extremely irregularly…so that when I do go…I die. My insides become my outsides and I cry and it hurts and ohmyword the HORROR. So I tell Dorian what’s going on so that if he comes home to me passed out…well, at least he knows to attribute it to loss of blood? Maybe?


So! Awesome! See what I mean? I’ve just depleted at least 3 levels of your respect for me. Oh, five!? Sweet!


So I’d been attributing the um, the blood…to ugh, hemorrhoids. That sick nasty, thing that only old people are supposed to get (no offense, but you have to admit that they do just sound like an elderly “problem”). So I looked them up on WebMD (I challenge you to find a more informative medical website)… and discovered that they can be caused by, get this, straining. And believe me, when you wait that long to go to the bathroom, and your body thinks that maybe you’re just playing around when you finally do sit down to release, so it keeps holding, because hey! this is just a joke anyway! My goodness, there is straining. So I thought I’d solved my problem (well, at least the problem of not knowing what was going on) until two days ago…when I don’t think I’d ever seen that much blood. Ever. There was, A LOT. So I tell Dorian…and cry a little…and he’s nervous…and wants me to call the Doctor…so I do…and they think I should come in…and it all leads up to, this morning…

Where I laid on an examination table, nakie from the waist down…and I really, really think…I may have done it. I think I pooped, right then and there. I had had coffee before I went, so duh, I just needed to go to the bathroom…but there was no time! Shocker! So I was holding it…and I made SURE to tell him that. And he proceeded with…the prodding. And after that appointment? I didn’t have to go anymore. I think I felt…release? And I don’t even have a delivery push to blame that on. So there you have it, I gave my Dignity an affectionate embrace and kicked it mercilessly to the curb.


(Oh and p.s. Nothing is wrong with me. Not even a hemorrhoid. I was shocked. The Doctor was even surprised. My diagnosis? I need to poop, regularly. My body is effectively throwing me the middle finger for holding it the way I do. So now, I get to take Metamucil every night before I go to bed and follow it with a cup of coffee in the morning, and let nature do the rest. Kill me).