Last night the boyfriend and I were grocery shopping. We hit Ralphs way too late, way too hungry, and without a list were rendered completely helpless and directionless in the aisles. We threw a bunch of shit we didn’t really need into the basket and as we shopped would place things back on the shelves, finally finding ourselves in the paper product aisle, looking at all the sweet little doggies and bears and babies that cover toilet paper packages. The conversation obviously turned to pooping. Hmm.
I suppose I should explain a few things. I have always had poo problems. I don’t like going anywhere but my home, don’t like anybody around when I do go, and due to the cigarettes and my improper diet of cupcakes and protein powder, have occasional problems actually executing the task. I’ve never liked talking about poo or farts or anything like that with anybody I’ve ever been with, and I’m cringing as I write about it here now.
When I moved from Concord to Moraga at 14, the girls in my new town baffled me because they spoke openly about bowel movements and these are things that were best left for the bathroom before the move. They’d talk about farting, they’d fart and laugh, they’d blow up the bathroom and say don’t go in there, and I found myself going home to use the restroom, having to stop at a gas station occasionally (at that time I had some pretty crippling stomach issues, usually due to stress), and sharing these intimate details with people close to me has always been something I prefer not to do. I liked perpetuating the myth that women don’t fart, shit or do anything that smells bad. hahaha. Except smoke. So last night when we started talking about poo, and how funny it is that they cover the packages with cute fluffy animals when they should smear shit stains all over it, you can imagine my discomfort. Even now, I only feel comfortable talking about poo with Angel and Deezy, but the conversation came up so I pushed through. Oh god, this post is turning to crap.
So Mr. Man commented on how he likes to think no girls go poo. I laughed and said I pride myself on sustaining that myth, that I very rarely go at his house. He said I have to go at his house, said if I have to go I have to go.
Mr. Man: Babe, if you have to crap you can’t just squeeze your buttcheeks and wait till you go home. It’s not healthy. You gotta shit.
Me: Yeah, but I don’t like going at your house. I only like going at my house.
Mr. Man: That’s insane. Babe, I love you. Sometimes you have to poo. I’m okay with that. It’s part of being in love with you. Accepting that you poo.
Me: Yeah. But. I still don’t like it.
Mr. Man: So wait, you don’t shit at my house?
Me: No…. I do…. I just wait till you leave.
Mr. Man: So.. You want some of those soft wipey wipes you like?
Me (frowning with arms crossed): Yes please.
And we continued our shopping adventure. The conversation went from poop to lasagna to meatballs and I moved from completely uncomfortable at the thought of him knowing that yes, it’s true, I do poo, to being lovingly impatient that he wouldn’t make up his mind as far as dinner is concerned.
I can’t help but feel this relationship is growing in a very healthy and organic way. I should have bought some prunes too 🙂