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 Low AnxietyPosted 06.30.2004 by daphne (3489)
Last week was the final period of moving for my family, which meant anxiety ruled. I had been anticipating a poop of decent proportions upon coming to the new home -- fresh fruit, whole-wheat tortillas, and my homemade vinegar hot bean dip had been bouncing around in my body for over twenty-four hours. I was drinking my usual bottomless glass of water (because I tend to forget to hydrate when I'm busy). Coffee was also in the mix -- raspberry-flavored. I'm loving the raspberry coffee as of late.
I'm not constipated very often, if ever. I certainly didn't expect to bring a stubborn one to the new home. But my body makes the decisions here. Once we finished the last bit of packing, we left our temporary apartment in University Place for the final time, me with a full car and a full lower intestine. It was around 5:30 when we arrived at the new house in Yelm, Washington. I spent the rest of the day unpacking the U-Haul while trying to keep two children with no television out of each other's personal space. Around midnight Gator and I lay down on a mattress on the floor of the office while Fred, the guinea pig, sat nearby and munched on Timothy hay. He had been pooping all night, the lucky little guy. I shot him an envious look, hugged my dog, and went to sleep to dream about poop, I'm sure. The next morning, I awoke refreshed. "It's the day! The day I take my first crap in the new house!" Six months in the University Place apartment was like six months in Purgatory. It represented a time of limbo, a time of unrest, a time of waiting to move into my dream home. But this was also the period in which I found PoopReport and realized that one of life's most basic functions could be the basis for an entire philosophy of being. So it might have been fate that, during this time, there was a contest to put a name to a toilet's first time. I was anticipating a new toilet in a new home -- while it had been used for seven years, it hadn't been used for me. All signs were pointing to a change in my life. A new beginning. A craptism. I brought my favorite air freshener downstairs to the master bath and hid a fresh roll of toilet paper under my sink (our new master bathroom has two sinks -- so very cool, so very Brady Bunch). I then went upstairs and drank two small cups of Washington raspberry coffee. Nothing. Around 2:00, Gator and I explored the community trails behind and around our cul-de-sac. We walked from backyard to backyard, skirting fences and other barking dogs. We even had the distinct pleasure of stopping in the middle of a swarm of iridescent blue damselflies as they buzzed around my head. The sunlight refracted off their slender bodies as they dodged in and out of my view; watching their aerial dance I almost forgot that I hadn't accomplished my goal. Coming out to one of the roads behind our cul-de-sac, Gator stopped, squatted, and took his maiden voidage in our new community. Patiently, jealously, I watched him drop one of the largest poops he's ever pooped in his life onto the side of the road (he, too, was behind schedule): a full ten or twelve inches of poop, coiled artistically around itself on a modest litter of leaves, as if arranged by Martha Stewart herself. Yes, it was a good thing. He seemed very pleased with himself. I picked it up with an inside-out gallon Ziploc baggie, and we began our journey back home. Reaching the house, I delivered his goods to our garbage can, and went inside to scrape up whatever I could for dinner. I don't remember what it was, but I do remember that it didn't have the effect on me that I so desired. For the first time in what I would estimate to be about four months, I went to bed after a poopless day. Was PoopReport -- and the new awareness of poop it gave me -- responsible for this mental and physical blockage? Was my new awareness of the doodie putting undue pressure on my ability to christen the house in my own special way? How far had this website crept into my life? I was pretty upset. My day had been otherwise perfect, with the damselflies, Gator, the sunshine, and everything else. So, for the second night, I lay down next to Fred the Pooping Wonder as he munched on hay and the occasional shit pellet while I pondered my performance anxiety. I mentally scoured my childhood; recalling just about every athletic event I'd ever been in, I decided that I had always done well -- if not exceedingly well -- under pressure in important moments. Performance anxiety rarely impacted my life. And I definitely considered this to be an athletic event of sorts. Or was it? Was this more than a bodily function? I decided it was. For me, this was tantamount to destiny. I thought to myself, "Daphne, maybe you're attempting to push the inevitable. Let it happen when it happens." So the next morning, I awoke as Grasshopper with pebble in hand. I enjoyed my morning. I drank my coffee. I went about my business. Then, around 10:00 or so, the rumbling in my tummy announced the moment had arrived. So, with a random piece of reading material in hand (my Journal of Ass Production was still packed in a toiletries box somewhere), I descended to the bottom floor of our home, trailed by my trusty bulldog, where I took immeasurable pleasure in locking the bedroom door so I could leave the one to the master bathroom slightly ajar for maximum stink dispersal. I turned on the fan -- a pleasant one, neither rattly nor dirty -- and sat down right as my butt announced the kids were at the pool. They gleefully jumped in, one atop the other, not waiting for a lifeguard to clear the area underneath the diving board; mini-poonamis splashing against the bottom of the rim announced each new swimmer. I sat, not even reading, but just pooping. Gator sat with me, also smiling. We looked at each other and I understood how he felt the day before. And, to make matters even nicer, cleanup was minimal. I have pooped every day since. I think the moral to this story is that some things come in their own time, and expectation can ruin an event. I'd waited my whole life for this house and six months for this poop; and I almost ruined it by pushing and straining -- a metaphor for how I've lived the last twelve years of my life. It was nice to let things happen as they were supposed to, in their own time, for once and all; and for that I thank the people and philosophy of PoopReport. -- Daphne Post new comment
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