Nic Narrates

While outwardly I, and for all appearances- contentedly, sipped my morning coffee from my extra special mug that My Dear Heart picked out for me (oh yes, I have stuff there) and indulged his love of  le Tour de France; inwardly things were taking a bit of a different turn. In fact, I felt as though I might, at any moment, yup…OH MY FREAKING GOD, I’M GOING TO EXPLODE!

So here’s the thing; when you’re an 11 year sufferer of IBS, such as myself, you get more than used to not feeling well. In my case, I’d equate it to feeling like you have the stomach flu about 70% of the time- give or take PMS, fried foods, stir fry, lettuce, or Chinese. Bah. You learn to take it one day- sometimes one meal- at a time. And you try not to freak out too much or find yourself in situations that inhibit (and therefore, of course, exacerbate) restroom usage. As you can imagine, this has always posed a special dating dilemma for me.

See, I still believe that bathroom time is private time. But in a city apartment, bathroom time becomes an eavesdropping I-wish-I-didn’t-just-hear/encounter-that spectator sport. Typically, it’s been only a matter of time and comfort level before the boundary is breached and I am enabled to function as a normal human being (i.e. banishing my boyfriend from the apartment/ 2-room vicinity/ hotel room and taking the Sunday paper with me). Not so in this case…

Thus far, I’ve tried to make a joke of it. Because feeling like you’re STILL going to explode is hilarious. The joke? “Go to your Man Place.” Man Place; as in the place men go in their minds wherein women are able to remain sexy nymphs in perpetual lingerie, and who- heaven forbid- succumb to UN-GENDER SPECIFIC foibles of humanity like sweating, burping, having the need for a bodily function or two, or (gasp) farting.

The only way to account for such behavior is to acknowledge, as I imagine men do, that these manifestations are created- clearly- by catty jealous (but hot) hussies who are shamelessly interested in roving their man parts and have thus invented lies, PURE LIES, about their current sexy lingerie-clad nymph.

Right……

Hence my inner turmoil as I watched Lance fight his own losing battle, albeit as he “toured” up a mountain in stage 9. Blissfully unaware of what was about to go down, the boyfriend sat in raptures beside me. After a few attempts at learning about the “colorful” world of cycling, I wordlessly slipped away to the bathroom. Which ought to be dubbed Dungeon of Torturous Embarrassment because, come to think of it, it’s really something more akin to a gaping valley that echoes…echoes…ECHOES like a Riiiiiii-co-laaaaa commercial.

It was within said Dungeon that I can neither confirm nor deny that something “untoward,” such as but not necessarily like this, occurred. After which, I may or may not have immediately hit the ground. Duck and cover. Stop, drop, and roll. Who, me? What? Noooo….

In the aftermath of my forehead slapping episode, I stared myself down in the mirror and realized I’d been washing my hands for a solid two minutes. He HAD to have heard. Oh, holy hell, he had to have. How will I ever walk out of this room as though nothing, NOTHING AT ALL, happened? La dee dah….

In the end, I did it of course. I walked back out there and finished my coffee. And, like the grown up I am, sheepishly avoided all eye contact. Guilty as charged.

Now go to your Man Place.

Filed under: cohabitation, crash and burn, domesticity is overrated, hateful, is janky the same thing as wonky?, junk, Just Another Day in Crazy, poor choices, sickness sucks, singletons, so what if i scream?, WTF, you're a card by Nic