Nothing to See Here…

I hate pooping at work.

There.  I said it.

I have spent entirely too much time thinking about this topic.  Honestly.  It’s more embarrassing to admit to how obsessed I am with it than it is to stink up the entire damn ladies’ room during peak visiting hours.  I’m full of shame.

But if I’m being honest, this is an issue for me.  I can’t seem to get over it.

I’d rather just hold it until I get home but that’s not always an option.  I’ve tried to convince my body to time its regularity to non-work hours.  That often works out but not always. 

And on the days it does not… egads.  I need some Xanax.

I have a multi-tier strategy.  First, avoid the bathroom during those peak times like just after lunch.  Come on, Linda - you can hold it until 2:00!!  Second, if there is anyone in there, just wash your hands and move along and come back later.  Third, consider the single handicapped stall but first be aware of the risk that if the one dude who uses that comes to the door, he’s going to wonder who is using his bathroom since there are no other disabled (otherly-abled?) people on the floor.  If he said “Who’s in there?” would you disguise your voice like the wolf in Little Red Riding Hood?  Would you say “Hey, Dan, sorry - I had to take a dump and needed some privacy.”?  Would you chicken out and not respond at all leaving him out there rattling the doorknob, waiting to witness your walk of shame as you exit the single person room leaving the essence of your visit behind?

Everybody poops.  Why is this an issue?

In the UK, the bathrooms have proper walls and doors that go all the way to the floor.  At least there, no one can identify me by my shoes.

There are times when I find the ladies room thoroughly unoccupied and I think I’ve managed quite a feat to get the place to myself, but as soon as I reach the point of no return, people will come in.  It’s like a parade.  I imagine out in the office, someone has raised a spotlight roving back and forth over the office that says “Women’s Toilets - NOW OPEN!  Early bird specials!  Don’t miss out!  Hurry!!”  Why else would they all show up precisely when I’ve secured some alone time in the john?

And why are they all studying my shoes?  I can’t get rid of this shoe paranoia.  I mean, if you came in right now and quizzed me on who is wearing what shoes, and say there was a million dollars on the line if I even matched up one person to one pair of shoes, I’d have to walk away from the money.  There are dozens of people here and I could not possibly tell you a thing about any of the shoes they are wearing.  Yet somehow I’m convinced that they have all memorized and documented my shoes for the purpose of tsk-tsking me about a perfectly normal human process such as elimination of waste.

I await the day when they come to my office door and say “Um, Linda?  Can we see what shoes you’re wearing today?”  I would warily slide my feet from under my desk, intently watching their faces for signs of recognition.

“Ah, yes.” one of them would say to the other with a knowing look.  “We thought that was you.  Burritos, was it?”

And then I would wake up in a cold sweat but thoroughly barefooted with a fresh, clean chance to go to work again and not encounter throngs of women in the ladies’ room while I was doing my bidness.

A girl can poop hope.

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