A Case of the “Blow-Outs”
Alright, y'all, grab your ass and hold on—my father's solution to all life problems—because we're plunging into a topic that not even the finest diaper rash cream will smooth over the uncomfortableness—that whole sentence, in my opinion, is pure brilliance. For some, this is probably a good time to make a quick exit stage left, but to the brave souls staying put, welcome to the conversation about doing your business. Or as my mother coined, “Having a Case of the Blow-Outs!”
Going number two is the most private of affairs. Throw in a cute guy, and suddenly your body forgets how basic functions work. Constipation? Yep, bring it on—sounds like a vacation compared to the sheer terror of having to share that part of yourself. For years, I have been perfecting my skill at being a "bathroom ninja"—whatever it took to make sure no former or current lover ever caught wind (pun fully intended) of my bodily functions.
But I can tell you, it's not easy. I've got escape plans that rival covert military missions.
The minute I get even the slightest whisper of a breeze coming, I'm breaking out my finest "I've-got-a-super-duper-important-call-to-take" excuse and hauling tail out of the room faster than Fern when she sees a squirrel. Anything more than just passing gas? Oh, the things I do to save face. Forggedaboudit!
Now, provided you're living alone, this isn't an issue. But once you move into your lover's shoebox with a roof—seriously, I'll save that story for another time—there's no getting away from it. You've got about as much chance of hiding your bathroom habits as a one-legged man in a shit-kicking contest—thanks, Dad, for that little gem of wisdom.
And then, of course, there's the real dilemma—what do you do when nature calls and there isn't a bathroom in sight? Well, here's where my MacGyver kicked in, folks. Picture this: a plastic paint bucket lined with a trash bag, enveloped by a fort of boxes and topped off with old towels for privacy. My lover, God bless him, even threw in Mom's plaid tablecloth to really set the mood.
Then, to make it a bit fancier cause I have the delusion that I am fancy, I had a full setup—a clear bin stocked with wet wipes, toilet paper, disinfectant spray, and a three-wick lavender candle to, you know, set the ambiance. All this so I didn't have to pee with the much-hated splashback. Well, little did I know, I was making my very own portable throne.
That evening, after a great dinner, I was finally riding high on good vibes. Ironically, I decided to blast some James Brown's "I Feel Good"—because, well, I “was” feeling good. But then the universe chose just that time to humble me with the dreaded poop cramp. . You know, like one of those that has you in a mad dash, sweating to the bathroom. Well screaming in my head “FUUUDGE” but I didn’t say fudge. But plot twist—the element of surprise—it was only a fart! At least, I thought so until the storm really started brewing. There was no denying it this time. I was found out. My lover knew exactly what was taking place, and all I could do was face the music. After years of bathroom secrecy, my moment of truth had finally arrived.?”
I looked him in the eye and said: "We will never speak of this again." But that night, as we lay in bed, he casually let one rip and grinned like it was the most natural thing in the world, while I had been running a bathroom black-ops operation for literally years.
So, am I overthinking all this? Perhaps. Maybe it's time to chill out. In the grand scheme of things, what's the worst that could happen? My face turns red, we have a great chuckle and our bound grows stronger. Why I have been trying to be “all grown up” all this time was just silly. I’m gonna wrap my arms around my inner child when out butts make hilarious sounds!! And laugh unil it hurts.
Basically, I finally realize that sometimes you just have to take the awkwardness as it goes. Therefore, here's to “letting go.” Toot! Toot! And to laughing through the cringe while just being grateful for those so called “coincidences” that keep us from disaster.
XOXO Holly Marie
