The Appendix Diaries, part 2.

Last night I talked to my boyfriend about my bowel movements, and how it hurts so much to reach around to wipe my butt.

No, wait. You don't understand.

These are things I do not discuss with anyone, ever, with maybe just these few exceptions.

1. With a toddler who just announced she made it on time ~ And then we both look in her little red potty and squeal, she out of pride and delight, and me out of the quick whistle of vomit that has sprung up behind my molars.

2. With my girlfriends who are loud and proud poopers ~ They share giggles while one poops and the other pours the wine, and I snicker like I'm listening but really am just searching for something else to clean.

3. With an entire emergency medical room staff ~ Because my body is a machine, my body is a machine, my body is a machine, and the machinists need to know how the pipes are holding up, and also, sigh, are the contents fluid or firm? 

I was married for 10+ years to a man that believed I never had a bowel movement. Over 10 years I stealth-bombed the one shared bathroom; I was a gastro ninja. I was confident in my regular irregularity, a functioning and discreet digestive enigma. The world was my stage, my heart an open book, but that was one piece that stayed behind the curtain. Keeping it secret was an ongoing victory.

But my main mansky, Cransky, loves me enough to buy me stool softener along with my antibiotics and pain meds. And then enough to ask me how things are progressing "down there".  And then I must love him enough back, because after a few TMI disclaimers, I answer.

He must love my guts. 


Belcher said…
Wow. A gastric ninja. I lived with a guy who didn't like the idea that I pooped or farted. It was a fact he wished I would hide. I think it was the downfall of our relationship. Because I shit and fart, and sometimes I shart. And I like to tell everyone. Also, I rarely close the bathroom door.

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