Sure, Everybody Poops. But Do They Have To Do It When I’m Around?
Once upon a time I was falling in love with a woman. And then she pooped.
Everyone poops, people protest when I mention my relationship pet peeve. This I know. It was how it was done that disturbed me so much: one stray pellet carelessly left floating for me to discover. At that moment, she fell from her tower.
That one little nugget came to symbolize everything that was wrong with a relationship hopelessly out of balance — me constipated by my relentless neuroses, trying so hard to impress; her confident enough to move her bowels after only a handful of dates and not even double check the flush.
But before I continue with this brilliant diatribe, let me state that I’d hate for this column to devolve into vapid potty humor, because I really do think the issue of poop plagues many relationships. It plays a pivotal role in distinguishing between comfort and discomfort. It can show you the ugly side of a beautiful person. It can make the godlike seem human. And in my opinion, it can also tip you off about someone who is rotten to the core.
I’ve heard accounts from people who haven’t been able to poop in front of a partner after nearly a year of dating. I’ve also heard of husbands and wives who plop down on the bathroom floor, conversing while the other is doing his or her business. Most disturbingly, I recently heard a tale of a woman proudly displaying mobile phone photos of her poop in front of a crowd that included her unfazed girlfriend. Apparently people tend to deviate to opposite ends of the poop spectrum, either saying it’s no big deal or that they would never fathom going in front of a partner. I fall firmly into the latter category.
I consider the bathroom a more sacred place of intimacy than the bedroom. It has come to symbolize nearly every commitment issue of mine. The sight of a partner’s toothbrush left on the sink is like seeing someone drowned in my bathtub. Sure, I might have had my tongue lolling around in your dirty mouth all morning, but ask to borrow my toothbrush and I’ll probably faint. But among all of the terrifying actions that take place in a bathroom — from sharing towels to doing your makeup in front of someone — going to the bathroom is by far the scariest.
I run the water when I pee, spend romantic weekend getaways looking like an Ethiopian with my distended belly, and have been known to ask partners to walk laps around New York City while I use the bathroom of our cramped hotel room. It’s not that I’m trying to protect some perfect image that someone might have of me. But I do think it maintains a certain level of class and respect (neither of which I have outside of the bathroom). It’s a slippery slope from crapping in front of each other to wearing sweatpants at a restaurant. I would prefer to think that women don’t even have digestive systems than to think about them going the bathroom.
So you can imagine my distress at dating someone who finds nothing taboo about the topic of poop. In fact, she seems to be relishing my distaste for the subject, hellbent on making me comfortable with all things colonic. In the first month of our courtship, she was struck with such constipation that the subject made its way into nearly every conversation we had. Trying to be a caring individual, I had to pretend she had malaria in order to address her health concerns and not think about the core problem being bowelrelated. She, on the other hand, seems to thrill at my digestive maladies and anxiously awaits the day when I begin sharing them with her. Recently, she went so far as to buy me a “Poo Log,” complete with a section for jotting down “unusual characteristics” and an area for sketching.
She’s trying to break me, I realize, to show this neurotic little commitmentphobe that it’s okay to be fully comfortable with someone. Still, I literally have not gone the bathroom since opening the book the night before we left for a weekend getaway. My inhibition, Freud might say, could actually be indicative of sexual gratification. I’d say it’s more selfpreservation than anything.
I have a million other ways that I can express comfort besides cracking someone’s porcelain god. For me, pooping is a private act to take place within the hallowed four walls of my bathroom. And I see no correlation between being comfortable enough to have sex with someone and the crapper.
Ironically, despite all her bowel talk, the little girlie also spent the weekend bound up. I’m seeing it as a good sign that we’re comfortable enough to be communicating about these things, but still respectful enough to be discreet. And as I creep toward a place of greater commitment, I guess I need to realize that the little things shouldn’t be an excuse to flush everything down the drain.
Jeannie Greeley is a poopedout freelance writer who can be reached at jeannieg@comcast.net.
