6.21.2004
That's the last time I exceed the recommended dose of herbal laxative.
I'm a stickler for social discretion. However, I am also a firm believer in cadidness. I do my darndest to greet each piece of confided information, no matter how gross, with an objective mind.
So on I go with why my day was uncomfortable.
I'll say it. Yesterday, I took my usual 3 tablets of herbal laxative to help move things along. However, after a huge crazy attack which resulted in a big bowl of cereal and handful of carob chips late at night, I proscribed myself a half a bottle of fiber tablets and several teaspoons of Expec mucus loosener. I decided laxatives were a lot easier on the system than forced reverse parastalsis, which I can never bring myself to succeed in.
Run to the john number one comes at six a.m. Too tired to think about it. 7:30 am, work time drawing nearer. I realize I have gas (I have stopped getting gas since I became addicted to water). I crawl into a yogic inverted fertile position to release.
Work. By this time, my gut has inflated with the pregnancy of a mushy mass of fecal matter and methane.
I know what you're thinking. It was my rational too. "Well cheshiregrrrl, it's a good thing you work in Rockefeller Center, where your public bathroom comrades are too dignified and busy to 1) care what anyone else is doing in the bathroom or 2) spend enough time in the bathroom to have a chance to draw judgments.
Reality. The sharp suited-women I honor in the halls are never in the bathrooms. There are four kinds of corporate women who accompany me:
1. Two Spanish-speaking women who lean and talk for minutes and minutes, occasionally doing dishes in the sinks. I wonder, are they not allowed to speak in the office? Do they not realize the rudeness in hovering around the stall yapping away about their hair color?
2. The bathroom-less. My reactionary joy at hearing the woman's handwashing, her cue to leave, dissolves when silence comes. Why anyone needs to do a full makeover in the afternoon beats me. I'd think she was homeless, except she has one of those brown fancy handbags with the gold letters and fleur-de-lis.
3. The ditzy girls. I thought it ended in junior high. Then high school. Then college. They're still going strong. How do they get jobs? Gabbers like the Spanish women. The difference: the ditzy girls are in and out, but they chat through the stalls.
4. The fashion-clueless reserved accountant. Loose sweaters and tapered pants. I don't mind them so much because I'm cooler no matter how much flatulence I echo through the tile bathroom.
My ultimate humility, for you, dear reader.
I suppose I had birthed all the waste possible. Nevertheless, that herbal laxative was still churnin' hard. The fart must have been over a minute long. Luckily, the sound of my urination may have covered it. I was too astounded to be embarrassed, though. It sounded like Donald Duck holding the long note in the Three Amigos theme song.
Oh but there's more. I knew it was time to cancel plans of my culturally enlightening music/film engagement that night when I let out a discreet toot, accompanied by a moist sensation.
Of course the instant I got home I was fine.
Two months ago, I would have taken this as a cleansing opportunity, a time to start anew with only wholesome foods in my system. But no. I ate my veggies, but enjoyed a real cookie too. Last night, that cookie would have sparked me to take a laxative. But this night.... I think I'll run instead.
So on I go with why my day was uncomfortable.
I'll say it. Yesterday, I took my usual 3 tablets of herbal laxative to help move things along. However, after a huge crazy attack which resulted in a big bowl of cereal and handful of carob chips late at night, I proscribed myself a half a bottle of fiber tablets and several teaspoons of Expec mucus loosener. I decided laxatives were a lot easier on the system than forced reverse parastalsis, which I can never bring myself to succeed in.
Run to the john number one comes at six a.m. Too tired to think about it. 7:30 am, work time drawing nearer. I realize I have gas (I have stopped getting gas since I became addicted to water). I crawl into a yogic inverted fertile position to release.
Work. By this time, my gut has inflated with the pregnancy of a mushy mass of fecal matter and methane.
I know what you're thinking. It was my rational too. "Well cheshiregrrrl, it's a good thing you work in Rockefeller Center, where your public bathroom comrades are too dignified and busy to 1) care what anyone else is doing in the bathroom or 2) spend enough time in the bathroom to have a chance to draw judgments.
Reality. The sharp suited-women I honor in the halls are never in the bathrooms. There are four kinds of corporate women who accompany me:
1. Two Spanish-speaking women who lean and talk for minutes and minutes, occasionally doing dishes in the sinks. I wonder, are they not allowed to speak in the office? Do they not realize the rudeness in hovering around the stall yapping away about their hair color?
2. The bathroom-less. My reactionary joy at hearing the woman's handwashing, her cue to leave, dissolves when silence comes. Why anyone needs to do a full makeover in the afternoon beats me. I'd think she was homeless, except she has one of those brown fancy handbags with the gold letters and fleur-de-lis.
3. The ditzy girls. I thought it ended in junior high. Then high school. Then college. They're still going strong. How do they get jobs? Gabbers like the Spanish women. The difference: the ditzy girls are in and out, but they chat through the stalls.
4. The fashion-clueless reserved accountant. Loose sweaters and tapered pants. I don't mind them so much because I'm cooler no matter how much flatulence I echo through the tile bathroom.
My ultimate humility, for you, dear reader.
I suppose I had birthed all the waste possible. Nevertheless, that herbal laxative was still churnin' hard. The fart must have been over a minute long. Luckily, the sound of my urination may have covered it. I was too astounded to be embarrassed, though. It sounded like Donald Duck holding the long note in the Three Amigos theme song.
Oh but there's more. I knew it was time to cancel plans of my culturally enlightening music/film engagement that night when I let out a discreet toot, accompanied by a moist sensation.
Of course the instant I got home I was fine.
Two months ago, I would have taken this as a cleansing opportunity, a time to start anew with only wholesome foods in my system. But no. I ate my veggies, but enjoyed a real cookie too. Last night, that cookie would have sparked me to take a laxative. But this night.... I think I'll run instead.
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