Nothing to See Here…

Posted By JustLinda on March 18, 2010

My cycle is messed up.

No, not that cycle, the other one.

I had a good thing going – meaning that I was pretty darn regular and when things moved, they moved when I was at home, where I had the privacy of my own bathroom in which to handle things.  (Handle being figurative in this instance.)

But somehow, I got all messed up.  My bowels are discombobulated – I told them to go left and they went right instead.  And now, mid-morning at work, I have to go take care of business.

My, oh, my how I hate taking care of business at work.

This is not my first foray into blogging on this topic.  I’ve talked about it here where I cover off some of my public restroom gripes.  Oh, and here where I reveal my paranoia that others are studying my shoes under the stalls.  Probably other places too, because I’m a freak.  A freak who poops.

Last year, they installed auto-flushing toilets in our work restrooms.  (And really?  Restrooms?  Who goes in there to rest?  Not that I haven’t been tempted, but still…)  I have sort of a love/hate relationship with auto-flushing toilets.  I love the fact that I never have to walk into a stall to be faced with what someone else left behind.

But I hate the way those toilets judge me!

They do!  I’m not kidding.  They never want to auto-flush for me.  I always thought it was because I was a svelte 286 pounds and whatever auto-eye sensor was in place couldn’t get enough clearance to set off the flushing mechanism.  I picture two little oompa-loompas in there.  One is meant to keep an eye on the occupation status of the seat and the other one initiates the flush when the first gives him the all-clear.  I think they’d probably be named Hank and Roger.  Well, maybe.  In my own weird mind, at least, they are Hank and Roger.

So at my top weight, I was never surprised that Hank couldn’t tell that I was done.  He has poor vision, probably.  Or my ass was the size of the stall.  Either one.

Hank:  “All I’m seeing is fat-ass here, Roger.  Hold off on the trigger button for now.  I’ll keep an eye.”

Roger:  “OK, Hank.  Standing by.”

I tried to outsmart them.  I’d move as far over to the side of the stall as I could.  I’d suck it in, minimize my size, smoosh myself against the wall of the stall.

Then I’d shake my fist skyward and say “As GOD as my witness, I will lose this weight so the damn toilets will flush automatically.”

Shamefully, I’d press the button and dry my tear.  Oh, wait – first I’d wash my hands, then I’d dry my tear.  (That is tear, singular.  It’s a lone tear because I think it adds a touch of extra drama to just have one tear.  HEY, IT’S MY BLOG!)

So there you have it — the final straw on this weight issue was that the auto-flushing toilets wouldn’t flush.  Fuck you, toilets!  Ha!  LapBand surgery – 100 pounds lost (nearly).  Take THAT.  (Although, really, don’t they already have to take enough?  I’d imagine that when you are a receptacle of shit all day long, you don’t much care whether someone is struggling with your auto-flushing sensor being all judgey and stuff.)

Here I am a year later and I can recall with pristine clarity the first time the toilet flushed on its own, the way it’s designed.  I did my business, stood up to buckle my belt (because, people?  I wear belts now – to hold up my pants!!) and the toilet flushed all on its own.  I did a victory dance worthy of the music that accompanied the Rocky, Rocky II, Rocky III, and Rocky IV (but probably not Rocky V) victories.

Duh-du-du-dunt-da-da-DUNT-da-da-dunt!  DOO-doo-DOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO, doo-doo-dooooooooooo!

(Also?  Ha.  I’m such a dork – isn’t it great that I worked doo-doo into the sound track of this post??  Poetic, man.  Poetic.)

That’s when you know you’ve arrived in this weight loss game – when the toilets flush automatically!  Nothing screams success as loudly as a flushing toilet.  (Take that however you wish.)

But, people – the toilets have stopped flushing in an automated, hands-off sort of way.  Hank and Roger are either ignoring me or making the loudest silent commentary ever on my fat ass.

I’m not sure what to do about it.  I’m trying to get my mind off it so I don’t obsess.  I think the best way to do that is to wear red alligator skin 4″ stiletto pumps to work.

Because at least then, I could go back to worrying about who is identifying me by my shoes.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

This post brought to you by the TMI Thursday party, hosted each week by LivitLuvit.  You should visit her blog and click on some of the other posts she links up because some of these make my poop antics seem practically modest.

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