My butt gets homesick.
When I leave to go on a trip, once I lock my front door and get into the car or a taxi or on a plane, my booty is like, “Nope. I miss home. I miss my toilet. This door will not open again until I am back on my own commode, thank you very much.”
I am afflicted with the condition of Fecal Stage Fright.
I can’t poop when I’m traveling.
I guess maybe it’s a nervous thing? Like a twitch, but the opposite because there ain’t any twitching or movement of any kind going on down there. Some people when they travel have the opposite issue, and their anxiety and nerves cause them to be prone to ass-plosions. But me? I just can’t poop. I am literally unable to drop the kids off at the pool.
And it’s not like I’m not trying. I try plenty. I perch and take deep breaths. I put on the shower in hopes the steam might enable my cheeks to unclench. I play music thinking maybe some Enya will evacuate my bowels. I bring my suitcase into the bathroom to use as a makeshift squatty potty. I give my anal region a pep talk.
But nothing will allow me to make manure. Once I’m away from home, I gain a Fort Knox sphincter.
On one hand, I guess it’s kind of a blessing. I don’t have any awkward moments in public restrooms, waiting for it to be empty so I can poop in peace. I don’t have any rushed “Will you please excuse me?” moments when I feel like the mouse is about to come out of the house. I don’t have to be concerned with stinking up my hotel room which I’m sure makes my roommates happy. And I can wear thongs all the livelong day because no poop means no potential skid marks. So there are some silver linings to my stopped-up situation.
But on the other hand, not pooping causes quite a bit of discomfort. And by little, I mean a lot.
For starters, I can’t eat as much because I’m so constipated that the idea of packing more shit in (get it?) makes me queasy. And isn’t eating while on the road the best part about being on the road? Plus there’s the bloating because my intestines are a gridlocked grain silo, so my clothes fit terribly and that puts me in a foul mood.
And let’s not forget the gas. Despite my butthole’s attempt to stay packed and puckered, something has to give eventually, and it can clear a room. I can’t hold it in. Mortifying.
I can’t even begin to tell you how difficult it is to enjoy myself when I feel the urge to poop, and I simply can’t go. On the outside, I look like a happy-go-lucky, normal pooping person. Yeah! Traveling is a blast! I‘m just like you — flinging first coffee of the day cowpies! But on the inside I’m just a blocked-up blonde who is dreaming about chugging some stool softener if it means I’ll get some relief.
And the travel always ends the same way. I unlock my front door and my butthole yells “freedom!” and off I go to the porcelain palace with a gas mask and a good book because, believe me, I’m gonna be in there for a while.
If you see me out in the wild somewhere, there’s a good chance I’ll seem antsy and uncomfortable and maybe like I don’t like you very much. Trust me, it has nothing to do with you, and I don’t have a stick up my butt. It’s just poop.
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