C’mon. You’re the epitome of Ann Taylor work-week chic. You’re a clean-cut, fit kind of Banana guy. You’re a delectable young coed (male or female) in your perky trendy dormwear from Pink and Hollister, AE, Abercrombie or Urban Outfitters. Maybe you’re more rocker-edge, (Suicide Girls anyone?) or more mall rat Hot Topic, you’ve got your Kat Von D and Urban Decay eye-dye on. Or, you’re hardcore Patagonia and REI, or maybe a bit more laid-back LLBean, or you’re hip-hop, mod, grunge, retro, artsy intellectual, surfer, emo—whatever. My point? Sweet and sexy mom, rugged handsome dad…you have your identity. It surrounds a generally healthy sense of self, basic hygiene and good grooming, a “look” you project to the world that’s uniquely your own. And it hints at everything but the kind of bathroom maelstrom your body is now suddenly capable of creating – a.k.a. “gut-rot trucker that just chugged a gallon of moonshine and ate roadkill blow-out.”
Yet, undoubtedly, your new condition has given you one of those precious moments. Cherish them, you new-found anti-establishmentarian you. Perhaps you decry public restroom norms and relish this subversive opportunity. (If so, high-five!) Or perhaps you try to be a bit more polite, knowing your coworker (or peer) is in the next stall, and want to sink through the floor in shame if you make so much as a mouse fart. Well my considerate friend, we can squeeze until we’re blue in the face and gasping in pain, but inevitably the day comes when your gut flips to DEFCON 1 and presses the red button. You have no recourse, it’s nuclear. You’re a victim. Your actual victims might not have realized that, but they learned (or they will).
It happened at work for me. I sat patiently, waiting for this female (no idea who she was, it’s just a womens-only restroom so that’s the extent of my deduction) to do her business, wash her hands for five Fing minutes, and then decide that she was going to take the next ten to re-do her hair, makeup, deodorant, clip her nails… I’m probably guilty of this myself at one time or another, not realizing that the person who entered after me is trying to be polite, has a shy bladder (or sphincter) and is going insane with discomfort while I try and decide if my shirt makes me look fat. Generally though, especially now, I try and be quick. (Bigger priorities, ya know? Like, I’ll be back in twenty anyway for the next round, I’ll catch the mirror then). So long story short—WWII strafing rounds, complete with real blood below. That chick cleared out so damn fast, I’m pretty sure those were her shoes I saw when I walked out a few minutes later with a perfectly innocent “Who, me?” look on my face.
And no, this is not “graphic.” Google some other UC blogs and read about their author’s worst moments. Some are downright apocalyptic.