**warning: this is graphic and what some might call "over-sharing." But I don't believe in that.
Head's up: this is a blog of full-disclosure, and, though the most mortifying moment of my life, this story begs to be shared.
First things first, let's get some things straight: everybody poops. There. I said it. It's a natural, God-given function, and it is necessary and healthy. I'm not sure why we're so ashamed of this little process, but I'm no exception. If you're a guy, I hate to burst your bubble, but yes: girls, too, poop. Your wife, your girlfriend, your little sister... all poopers since Day 1.
Right now, I'm in Dallas visiting my friend Clay. Last night, we went to a Mexican restaurant called Manny's and then went back to Clay's apartment to play games. So there I am, with Clay and seven of my closest friends (read: seven strangers that I'm trying to impress with how cool and clever I am) when the urge hits me. Usually on trips, my colon is what you might call "shy," so when the opportunity arose, I had no choice but to embrace it.
I carefully timed my decision. Just after my turn, when I knew the other seven still had to play before I would be up again, I quietly excused myself. I stealthily slipped past the hall bathroom to the back bedroom. There I considered a test-flush to ensure that the porcelain throne was in good working order. Stop being paranoid, I told myself.
You know what happens next. I flush, and as I'm buttoning up and adjusting, I watch the water in the toilet swirl. Unlike most toilets though, this time the water is spinning in the wrong direction.
Cold sweat. Racing heart.
I think to myself that the toilet is just teasing me, some kind of bathroom version of chicken. Wrong. As the water threatened to spill over the top, I lunged to turn the water off, all the while whispering frantic prayers and promising to never be bad again if God would only fix the toilet. Some sort of Christmas miracle.
I think it's funny when God laughs at me.
So, I have no choice. After deciding that there's no way I can sneak back into the living room, grab my phone, and call my dad for advice (he's the only person I know that gets himself into more awkward situations than me), I drag myself into the living room and try to catch Clay's eye. He doesn't notice-- of course-- but his friends do.
"Clay, I think Lindsey wants you."
Great, all eyes on me. Um, yeah, hi... I broke your toilet. It started to overflow, but I cut the water off. (mental pat on the back)
Sensitive Clay, "So there's pee all over my bathroom floor?"
Okay, I'm horrified that Clay, thinking that I'm making a big ordeal about something as normal as pee, will run into the bathroom and save the day. So there, in a room of my peers, I have to confess immediately: No. It's not just pee.
Nice to meet you all, it's been a lovely time here in Dallas, but I must leave now so that I can bury myself under a rock and never make eye contact with any of you ever again.
They were all so sweet about it. Too sweet. Unbearably sweet. I wanted someone to joke about it, act like it was totally normal. But instead, they petted me, as though they wanted to save me from what they agreed was a totally miserable, mortifying experience.
They'll never remember my name. Months from now one of them will turn to Clay and say, "Whatever happened to that girl that broke your toilet?"
Before you go thinking that you can't believe I shared this, don't act like it's not your worst nightmare. I just said what everyone's been thinking for years. I wish we could get over it, and I hope this was a step in the right direction. Guess what: I poop, and so do you.
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