There are some things you should know about me. I am a regular girl -- and by regular, I mean that things flow smoothly when I keep to a schedule. From the first day of kindergarten until the last day of my senior year, school would let out at 3:27 and I would be home on the throne at 3:30. Even during the summer and Christmas breaks, I stuck to my schedule.
After graduating from college I started working as a night shift RN (yeah, I got lots of poop stories!). My bowel schedule was forced to change with my work and sleep schedule, and I would now go as soon as I got home from work, usually around 8 AM.
This is where the trouble begins. Several years ago I decided to visit Scotland, and I invited my seventy-some-year-old grandma to join me on a visit to our ancestral land. I got off work on a Tuesday morning, went home, and found myself too wound up and too busy to stop and crap. After a couple of hours of sleep, I packed my bags and drove to my parents' house where Grandma was staying.
The next day, the day of our departure, my sphincter remained closed and in the upright and locked position. I had some bran flakes, I had some apple juice, and I even took a walk. No go -- I was locked down tight.
My Grandma and I joined the other forty-or-so people that were also taking the tour. (Since I don't see Grams that often, it seemed best to make sure I didn't have to be responsible for entertaining her. A tour full of other talkative tourists would take the pressure off of me.) We drove for hours to the nearest airport. Before takeoff, I tried once more to relieve the fermenting greasy Chinese food that I had consumed Monday night at work. It wasn't that I didn't have to go -- I desperately wanted the mudslide to wash away my dietary sins -- but I was off schedule, and my stomach resisted my urgent attempts to impose a new one.
I wish that I could say that all of the layovers improved my situation, but they didn't. I drank apple juice, I drank water, I did leg lifts, and I walked a lot while waiting to board the planes. I even tried going while on the final flight to Scotland, but as soon as my freakishly shy sphincter saw the contraption inside that coffin-sized bathroom, I was sunk.
By the time we arrived in Scotland the next morning, my body began to relax and fall into its normal pattern. The sun came up. I had some cereal and juice, and I knew that it was no longer about relaxing, but rather about finding a suitable toilet. Happily, I collected my bags and began my search for a toilet -- but our anal-retentive travel guard (excuse me, travel guide) shut me down. Instead, I was forced to sit on a bus while we viewed the many beautiful buildings from our lurching bus. The only thing I noticed was how inviting all the trash bins looked, lined up on the streets like one long port-a-john.
It was becoming quite apparent to my grandmother (and to those in the seats surrounding us) that something seriously wrong was happening inside my aching abdomen. My belly was very swollen and I had undulating spasms that looked strangely like something was trying to escape. All the food and all the things I had taken to stimulate my bowels were kicking in with a cacophony of sounds. I decided to let a little steam off my stewing stools, but as soon I did that I could hear rolling farts from above the pocket of diarrhea. I began to get the shakes and to sweat profusely. Someone thought I was having a hypoglycemic reaction and tried to give me more juice.
We finally arrived and were able to check in. Grabbing the key from the manager, I was already running up the hall as he yelled, "You need to wait, there is something wrong with your room!" I didn't bother waiting for the lift; my short, chubby legs bounded up the three flights of stairs like there was a starving, pissed-off bear on my ass. I unlocked the door, and as I was running to the john I thought it strange that there were some personal items on the bed -- but it didn't break my stride to the toilet.
As I sat there, legs shaking, waves of curdled Chinese food, cereal, milk, juice, bran muffins and airline food began to pound away at my puckered ass. But just as the flow began, and I just as I finally began to feel some relief, I heard someone in the room. A man's voice yelled, "What are you doing in my bathroom?" He didn't sound upset or even stunned, just curious.
Imagine, if you can, being a twenty-two-year-old American woman in a foreign country, with your pants on the floor and a strange man in your room while you are trying to relax enough to allow a fetid mix of high bran toxin to empty your system.
To top it off, the man was trying to get into the bathroom.
I had my stubby left leg kicked against the door, trying to prevent him from entering while I was reaching for my britches with my right hand. It was then that I noticed that there were toiletries in the bathroom. Figuring that he was more interested in his bottle of Old Spice and stick deodorant than my naked quivering ass, I quickly opened the door, throwing him off balance, and threw his stuff at him, while yelling quite shrilly, "Get out, get out, get out!"
I finally heard him leave, but knowing that he still had a key to my room left me unable to fully relax and enjoy my first Scottish shit.
-- Gilda
