Editor's note: this was originally published on the author's web diary.
This week was my first working in an office again after three months of leisurely eating bon bons in bed while lounging in my PJs and collecting my hefty severance. The planets aligned and I got a job as a consultant for several grand a month to work in-house as a marketing manager. The money isn't enough, but combined with unemployment, it is perfect.
Monday was grueling, Tuesday was daunting, and Wednesday was just plain messy. The morning started with William and I waking up late, each of us rushing about. He busily made my bed while I ran to the bathroom to take the Perfect Doodie. And it really was perfect. It was one on those rare ones that come out long and dark in one solid, unending piece, poking out of the bowl. It was almost swanlike -- and, dare I say, beautiful. So, like anyone would, I called William in to witness it. He looked at it admiringly and was proud of me. I wiped, flushed and showered.
I had laid out my clothes the night before. I put on my brand new beige pants and went to my shoe closet to pick out a pair of shoes. I put a high sandal on my left foot but, in glancing down, doubted the height of the shoe was right for these particular pants. I reached for the right one to make sure I was correct in my assessment and quickly confirmed that they would not work. As I took the right one off, I noticed my whole right foot was sticky. I reached down and put my foot up and discovered that my whole foot was coated in shit.
I screamed, jumping up and down on my left (clean) foot, pulling up my beige pants leg as to protect it from said shit, screaming for William to bring me baby wipes. He reached over and told me quite defiantly that is was NOT shit on my foot. He put his finger on my foot, wiped some off on it and smelled it, wrinkling his nose in a horrified fashion. It was, he declared, indeed SHIT.
William ran into the bathroom to wash his hand. I'm still in the kitchen, unable to hobble to the bathroom for fear the shit would get everywhere, screaming for him to come and clean my foot. Finally he did. I washed the shoe and the bottom of my pants. We were late... so very late, and it's a steamy 85 degrees in the apartment already, and my hair is frizzing, and it's already way past the time we were set to leave.
And here's where William tells me what occurred while he was in the bathroom washing his hands. He went the shelf over the toilet, reached up for a washcloth and noticed something marble-like on my black bathmat. He picked it up. Um, it was shit. Turns out when I had stood up earlier to show him my masterpiece, I had a "hanger-on" that fell off -- and then I stepped on it while putting on my makeup before getting dressed.
Oddly, a few weeks ago I posted the debate that William and I had been having about proper wiping procedure. Which leads me to one of the things it's taken me thirty-four years to learn: always wipe sitting down first, before standing up.
The way I figure, though -- if one has to have shit on their bare foot, isn't it better that it be one's own?
