Sooner or later, I knew it would come to this. I've eluded to it before, but now is the time to just be frank. I can't poop anymore. Okay, I CAN, but it....takes a lot longer than it used to. Long ago, my secret pride was my efficiency in this area. As a matter of fact, I have lived with people that were convinced I did not possess the pooping function. Being pregnant is a different story though---I have no tact anymore. I now proudly announce to my husband when I have successfully gone to the bathroom such is my excitement. Perhaps I am just preparing for the inevitable pooping on the table during labor, so this is just my way of gaining momentum for that big event.
This is kind of a gross subject I realize. But part of my purpose in writing this blog is to document my pregnancy, so I will never do this to myself again (I'm joking! I think). But I see a lot of moms out there that do not remember much of their pregnancy and I want to remember all these little details---even the horrible constipation. Why? Because I think it's funny and so should you.
Still though, I remain shy and private about the actual process. So fear not, I will not show up at your house and poop on the new rug in your living room or anything. What I mean is I'm shy when I'm in a public bathroom, which can be difficult considering the amount of time it now takes to work things out. Unfortunately, the bathrooms are shared between all of the offices at my work, so there are constant interruptions when business is being conducted in one of the stalls. And women, in particular, have a hilarious way of dealing with business interruptions---we freeze until the intruder exits the facility. Not all women live by this code of course, but I always thought that at the very least we all understood it.
Fortunately, we have fantastic music piped into our office bathrooms. The new property managers have even switched the station from classical to jazz. And while I admit I miss the thrill of peeing along to Beethoven's Symphony No. 5, it always felt a little wrong. I don't think he created such a powerful song to entertain the modern worker as she relieved herself. The switch to jazz makes me feel more relaxed and hip about going to the bathroom though. Plus there is no more fitting place for the scat singing of a jazz vocalist than in a bathroom. Ahh, scatological humor warms the soul.
So today, I found myself in an extended stay situation in the bathroom enjoying some Ella Fitzgerald tunes when a stranger walks into the stall right beside mine. As it is my duty as a woman and out of respect for this stranger, I freeze. It occurs to me she probably notices my feet and therefore has a good idea of what's going on. Either that or she thinks I've fallen victim to Elvis Presley's fate. Regardless, I pass the time thinking about why it might be that I am so constipated. Is it that I am living solely off of grilled cheese sandwiches and tomato soup? Or is it that the baby is getting lonely and has taken comfort in hugging my intestines, thereby making it impossible for me to pass anything?
I hear the toilet beside me flush and she exits the stall to wash and dry her hands. Once finished, rather than leave the bathroom like a normal person, she (let's call her Sherlock to protect the innocent) doubles back to the last stall, where I am. I want to yell out, "ummm, can I help you?" or "did you lose a contact?" but all I can think about is the fact that I have chosen the only stall with a non-locking latch. There is another door that leads to a shower, but you have to know the code to get in. I hear the beep beep of her hitting random numbers because apparently she has lots of time on her hands and enjoys torturing me. And then I hear the creak as the door to my stall lurches forward towards me. With the reflexes of a fat ninja, I thrust my hand forward and the door slams back in the closed position while I emit a long, "geeeeeeeeeeeez." I wish I could have thought of something better to say. Sherlock replies, "uhhh sorry" and quickly rushes out the door.
I realize nothing exciting happened during this story, but I'm still trying to figure out why she opened the door to my stall when there were 3 other empty stalls in the bathroom (not to mention she had already gone to the bathroom). Was she a peeper? Did she think I was dead? I suppose I will never know. But the moral of the story is, if you fear the person in the stall beside you is dead, simply call out to them, "hey you in there, this is going to sound like a strange question, but you wouldn't happen to be dead would you?" If they don't reply, then and only then should you proceed with a visual inspection of the stall.