The restroom was full. Not just occupied stalls, but the entire room was filled with woman; standing arm to arm staring at the floor, chatting with their bathroom buddy, or eyeing the little girl who was 3rd in line as she did the pee-pee dance. I was 5th in line. 5th! This was horrible.
The reason I stopped at this location was to quickly pee and be on my way. It looked safe. It looked clean. It looked empty. I could pee in peace! But as I headed towards the women’s sign, I realized I didn’t have to pee.
Dear God, I had to poo.
Public pooping. It’s not a pretty thing. And it’s kind of a hush-hush thing among women. We don’t talk about it. We don’t joke about it. If we don’t smell it, see it, or hear it, it doesn’t exist. But if you do do it, God save your mortal soul. That’s why seeing the line of woman ahead of me made my heart stop, but the 4 women that lined up behind me drove me to the morgue!
I contemplated leaving, finding another place. But I really did have to pee. My thinking got a little crazy. “Do I have trash bags in the car? Probably not. Only thing close would be a left over McDonald’s bag. And that might be a new low for me. Pooping in a MacDonald’s bag in the middle of a parking lot? Someone might see. And I don’t know any empty random fields around here. Better just stay.”
So I did.
I sat down in the stall already with a cramp on my side. This is not a good sign. Cramping means you’re on the short train to Turd Town. I quietly spoke to the imaginary little men in my body who control things down there.
To be continued…