Despite what my sex and body issues may lead you to believe, I am quite comfortable talking about poop. Actually, disturbingly so. Credit for creating the poo gossiping monster that I am goes to my high school soccer team, who used to hold discussions about poop on our bus rides to games. No joke. However, there is a greater person who has to be recognized. All of you who enjoy the rest of this post must hail JD, who helped me discover and term "the magic moment."
For all you normal people out there, the magic moment is when you suddenly know you have to poop and you have to go right then. It is not to be confused with that ambiguous moment when guys "know" they have to poop and then spend the next twenty minutes waiting for it to come. No, no. The magic moment is a moment of enlightenment that comes a shade or two before the ol' "turtle head" and is a moment of peace and joy. You think "Oh. I have to poo" and you go. Bing Bang BOOM. Done. It's great. The magic moment is wonderful in itself, but also opens doors to what we like to call "speed pooing," which saves time and energy. But I digress.
Anyway, so the other morning (I'm going to go with Friday) I was up earlier than usual* and went about my morning stumble around the apartment before I get into the shower. This is generally the time when I think about things like brushing my hair (helps keep away shower knots..those little bitches), finding underwear for the day, and doing my business before I shower. With the first two items done, I wander into the bathroom to pee, but I don't really have to go so I hop in the shower. About fifteen minutes into my shower ** I'm just finishing shaving leg number one when I feel my lower stomach region lurch and drop. Hmm. I keep shaving and move on to leg number two. Then it hits me. The Magic Moment. Only this time it's not so magic because I'm in the shower. Shaving. And it's cold out there. Which means prickly legs. Oh, hell no.
With butt cheeks resolutely clenched, I continue toward underarm shaving. But the turtle wants to come out. NOW. With a sad look, I rub my soft, smooth legs and sigh. Defeated and shamed, I step out of the still running shower and do the cold, waterlogged waddle to the toilet. I plop my soaking wet self on the pooper. Insert prickly legs. Cue ridiculous sliding around the toilet seat because I'm all wet. Awesome. Pan to my dog looking curiously at me through the bathroom door, debating whether she should come in to lick the water dripping off me. I give her a death glare, flush, and fling myself back into the steamy goodness that is the shower. And start shaving all over again. Needless to say I was late for work.
Yep, that's my life.
*Getting up early classically makes my stomach do strange things. Like growl. And hurt. For no reason. Jerk.
**Yes, I do really take that long. Usually about 20-30 minutes. I'm a water waster, what can I say.
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