Adventures in Defecation

I could almost hear the cheesy announcer shout, “Welcome to the bathroom show!” as I left the bathroom this Friday. Almost. Let’s rewind.

It was a normal day in the stall, just like any other, when the bathroom show began. In lumbers this guy who at first I thought was one of the cleaning guys, because he was carrying so much stuff. He swung open the stall door next to me and proceeds to have a fight with the metal garbage bin that’s set into the wall. That’s the place where you dump your used paper towels. After a minute or two, I realized that he wasn’t really doing that — he was just extracting something from his bag. A computer? A SMART car? It was big, whatever it was.

Then he flushes the toilet (the good old initial flush), and sits down, peeling off his pants. So I’m doing my soduko and being a good lavatory citizen, hoping I can escape before he breaks out a wall with his enormous flatulation. Fortunately, that didn’t happen, but the bathroom show continued. He gets up and then proceeds to take off his shoes. I’m not kidding, and no, he wasn’t changing clothes as far as I could tell, because he got up and sat down several times. And if he was changing clothes, why flush?

By the time I left, he had at last become comfortable. My gosh, I thought, why don’t you start charging admission? At least that way you can make a buck off your bizarre toilet etiquette. The bathroom show went on, I’m sure, but as my business was done, I had to change the channel.

No, I’m not talking about going into the woods, or going through the woods, now — I’m talking about pooping. In. The. Woods. Well? It had been several years for me, but there I was, at the perfect artist retreat. I had found this small business park on a Sunday afternoon with a tree-lined street that faced an semi-busy road. I had peace; I had quiet; I had cars to watch if I needed a mental break. There I was, working on my latest artistic tour-de-force, when I realized that I had to take a dump.

Maybe you would have held it. I thought about it, but then considered that I could take a dump and then get in a few more minutes of creation time before I headed out to Starbucks. So I found a trail that lead down to a lake, took a whiz (but didn’t give it back), and then pooped. In. The. Woods. It was awesome, standing there and looking at my turds curled on themselves like some kind of defecation cloverleaf.

The only problem was when I realized that I needed something with which to wipe. I looked around. No, leaves wouldn’t do, especially those pointy ones. Were they poison oak? I pulled up and hurried back to the car, looking for those Baby Wipes I had around. Then, inside the car, I realized that those had dried up a long time ago. Fortunately, I had some napkins. Some of you may be wincing, but not I. My butt got tough when it had to use that junior high toilet paper which is about as gentle as sandpaper. Napkins would be no problem.

So I waddled back down to the lake, hoping that I wasn’t staining my underwear in the process, wiped, and tossed my napkins in the lake. Sure, I could have buried them, but they were paper. Paper means “biodegradable”, which means no problem.

Then I realized that I had nothing to clean my hands with. Well, the lake was out, so I just toughed it out until I got back to civilization. Would I do it again? Of course! In fact, I was disappointed in myself that I had waited this long. But I do need to stock up my car with some Baby Wipes first.