#105: The IBS Chronicles Part Two: Tale of the Cafe Crapper

HUMOR

I’m writing in the afternoon at a cafe that closes at 3:30pm, an act of treason I can only imagine was enacted against me personally. Despite this betrayal (revealed only after I purchased my chai latte with almond milk), the vibes are good. The chai well spiced, Beach Boys through the outdoor speakers, sheer shades strung across the patio filtering out the harsh light into a soft glow that’ll probably still sunburn me. It’s a sweet little spot. Although, there’s no public wifi despite an obvious, “Work from here! Stay awhile!” atmosphere. Again, criminal.

Perhaps my greatest grievance is that the sole bathroom features a large window. Normally, I’m a sucker for some natural light while on the commode. But this window is wide open, the view obscured only by big-gapped, large-slatted shades that could make any Tom passing by a peeping one, without much effort on his part.

To make matters worse, this window into the stool (I was trying to do a window into the soul thing but it didn’t quite land) opens right onto the patio. Currently, two women sit across from it, engrossed in deep conversation. Elbows on the table, leaning into each others’ stories with interest and understanding. Two beautiful women, a beacon of friendship on a sunny afternoon, unknowingly sitting in the eyeline and sniffline of the toilet.

I desperately need to take a wet shit.

Decisions decisions. That’s how I’d like to feel: decisions decisions. But my bowels are more of the DIY kind. They don’t love to take feedback. I have no choice. The decision has been made for me. I have to poop here. Writing this to you is merely delaying the inevitable.

I’ve waited as long as humanly possible. But the trouble is now I’m also up against the clock. I’ve lived with this IBS bitch long enough to understand that the urgency with which I need to flee to the bathroom right this very second does not indicate the type of swift, mess-less dump I’d like to dispel in this respectable place of business. Who knows how long I’ll be in there? Will the shop be shuttered by the time I’m done? Will the cute barista who asked me about my day bang down the door to mop before I’ve had the chance to wipe up? She’s got a job to do! A timecard to punch!

I can’t do it. And yet I must. I won’t make it home. And I don’t even want to ponder what sort of stain remover I’d have to procure if I drove in this state. Let’s get real. I wouldn’t be able to waddle to the car fast enough to save myself anyway. It’s a lost cause. My fate sealed. My bowels betray me once more.

Another employee just came out to the patio to fold up chairs. I am sitting in one of said chairs, but he didn’t ask me to move. I smiled without breathing. The constriction of my abdominal muscles feels Olympic. He left and I breathed out a sigh of relief coupled with a fragrant flit of flatulence. Was that a poetic enough way of saying stinky fart? I’m praying it got picked up on the breeze and carried away from his nostrils. But a quick lick of my finger and taste of the wind suggests otherwise. If I don’t move now, he might not want to fold up this chair anyway.

I must be brave. Wish me luck. Here I go.

ily bye,

Ariana