The geriatric set is also a frequent source of such candor. I remember quite vividly a visit my mother and I made years ago to a friend of my grandmother's. She was recuperating from a mastectomy and had returned home after an extended stay in the hospital. We were there to be supportive and sociable, of course, but I don't think either of us were quite prepared for the spirited monologue on her bathroom habits that unfolded.

"This morning," my grandmother's friend began, with a gleam in her eye, "for the first time since I got out of the hospital, I did three or four of those little balls."

As proud of her efforts as any toddler in the throes of toilet training, she proceeded to describe these small accomplishments in even greater detail. She explained how stopped up she had been since the surgery (and her inactivity in the hospital bed), and she was not the least bit embarrassed to share with us her joy upon the return of more normal bowel activity. (I might add here that she was not a vain person. She chose not to wear a breast prosthesis after her surgery, so her frankness in other areas was not a major surprise.) My mother and I, coming from a Shameless background, even exchanged amused glances throughout her turdly testimonial.

So much of what passes for polite conversation in American society is firmly entrenched inside the Shameful City limits. Which is why it's nice to get out. Last week, my brother, my sister-in-law, and I were visiting two assisted living facilities on behalf of my sister-in-law's mother, who is in the middle stages of Alzheimer's and will soon require round-the-clock supervision. While we were viewing the memory care unit -- which has alarms on the doors at either end of the hall to prevent patients from roaming the facility at large and becoming disoriented -- we caught snatches of passing conversations from some of the residents, most of whom were in wheelchairs.

"Did you go this morning?" asked elderly man to a woman nearby.

She nodded enthusiastically and with a smile on her face. "How about you?"

He nodded back triumphantly.

It occurs to me that checking up on each other's bowel and bladder activities is a valid means of socialization for people so mentally compromised. It is my understanding that Alzheimer's patients have a great deal of trouble with short term memory tasks, but acknowledging this one and indulging it freely enables them to exert some modest control over lives that are rapidly disappearing around them. The idea of feeling a sense of shame regarding bodily functions is as counterproductive at this time of life and under these circumstances as it would be for toddlers trying to master the acts themselves.

So I've outlined the parameters here: at the beginning and ending edges of life, we have a decided tendency to make no big deal out of bathroom habits and their results. It's those middle -- some would characterize them as "mainstream" -- stretches of life in which we get all caught up in various versions of Shamefulness. I contend that some people enter the Shameful City limits inadvertently, and remain there due to social inertia. They forget the pride they felt when they first mastered toilet training, or maybe they pick up images of bodily functions as nasty acts from peers, or maybe they are told directly by their parents at the conclusion of toilet training that "from here on out, nice little boys and girls don't talk about such things!" And so they slip into such practices as holding it in during school hours, and worse.

But eventually those same people will leave those attitudes behind in the final stages of life, when health adversities force their hand or when, like my grandmother's friend, they just don't care anymore. They're just glad to be alive and kickin'.

I suggest that all of us who are aware of these propensities hold on to healthy attitudes throughout the mainstream of life. Don't settle for experiencing them only outside the Shameful City limits -- you're better off taking pride in pooping while you're still fully capable of enjoying it.