WARNING: This post contains a poop story. It is highly inappropriate. It is (a little) graphic. It is poop. If you are squeamish (or eating), stop right now and come back on Monday.
Disclaimer: My boyfriend would probably rather I did not post this story. But I couldn’t help myself. Also, if you know my boyfriend’s dad…never tell him this story. Ever.
Last winter, Brian and I escaped the unusually-less-than-frigid Chicago weather with a long weekend away to Florida. Had we known that I would be losing my job a few weeks prior to the trip and take 8 months to find another one, we probably would have gone for a whole week. Regardless. Florida. Trip. Warm. Beach. Sun. Yay!
Brian’s dad lives on the coast of southern Florida. I spent most of my days barefoot on a beach. Brian spent most of his days sleeping until 2. It was the perfect trip. One of our days, though, Brian’s Dad took us out on a boat trip. This was very exciting for me. One of the perks of living on an island full of canals is DOLPHINS. If anyone didn’t know, I love love love dolphins. Love them. They are amazing creatures. (No, I’m not giving away free dolphins. If I had dolphins, I would keep them all to myself.)
So we took a boat from his Dad’s backyard through the canals out to sea. In the canals, as promised, I got to see dolphins playing! It was the most amazing experience ever. One day, I will swim with the dolphins, and that will trump this.
So we took a nice long boat ride in the Gulf of Mexico around the southern tip of Florida to a little island, which I will not name. The ride was a good hour from door to island. It was beautiful. We shelled along the beach, and had packed a picnic lunch. I was walking along, looking for sweet shells…when all of a sudden I felt a rumbly in my tummy. I tried to let it pass, but within two minutes I knew… I really had to poo.
Now in all actuality, I’ve got some sick digestive issues (that would be probably be diagnosed as something if I had health insurance and a doctor…), and there are times that I will go far too long without releasing the toxins. So when I gotta go–I go. No ifs, ands, or buts about it.)There’s no such thing as holding it. In fact, I don’t understand people who go and spend 20 minutes on a toilet waiting for it to happen. But that’s another story entirely.
So I walked over to Brian…
“Babe, I’ve got…a problem.”
Now, Brian is the best boyfriend ever, and he puts up with me talking about poop on a somewhat regular basis. That’s love right there.
“What?” He said to me, all innocent-like. He really had no clue.
“I have to go. Like bad.”
“Pee?” He looked hopeful. Squatting to pee on an island is not difficult.
I shook my head…
“Can you hold it?”
I shook my head again…
“Well, we’re about an hour away…even if we left right now.”
So I thought. And I thought. I didn’t want to embarrass Brian. Or his dad. Or make a scene. I wanted to enjoy the day. And I thought some more. And when I couldn’t take the stomach pains anymore, I said, “I’m going to go dig a hole. I’m going to need toilet paper. or napkins. or paper towels.”
So Brian and I casually walked back to the boat, as his dad was shelling. He acquired paper towels for me and waited by the boat. I walked deep into the not-very-sheltered island, where I found a semi-secluded spot. I dug a fairly deep hole. Took off my bathing suit (while keeping my skirt and shirt on–like MAGIC). Squatted. And did what I needed to do. I cleaned my person. Re-dressed. Covered the hole. Hand sanitized. and called it a day. I was proud of myself.
I would so survive on LOST. Or Survivor. Or even The Amazing Race. I am a winner.
I walked back to Brian, who didn’t want to know details…
…but I told him anyways.
We proceeded to picnic on the island…As we started walking in the direction of my man-made bathroom, I was fearful that we would end up dining a little too close for comfort. Luckily, we were still pretty far…ish away.
When we got back on the boat, I texted Lily, as she is my go-to poop story friend. She was thoroughly impressed.