It was on mine and my mom’s mind pretty much the minute Mark and I decided to get married. No one spoke outloud about it because, well, it was a little rude. But I had a history. And if past behavior is the best predictor of future behavior? I was screwed.
A week before the wedding my mom pulled me aside. To talk.
Mom: What are you going to do about… you know.
Me: I really haven’t thought about it… maybe it won’t be that big of a problem…
Mom: Marie! It is a huge problem! Don’t you remember Greece and Italy?
Ah, yes. Greece and Italy. The 10-day trip where I managed to avoid my biggest fear in the entire world. Going Numero Dos somewhere that is not my house. I can’t do it. And my mom knew that. I only got to speak to her once during that trip and the only thing she chanted the whole time we were on the phone was, “Poop, Marie, poop!”
But I couldn’t. I wouldn’t. It wasn’t home, and I refused to subject myself to the potential embarrassment of someone finding out that I was… human.
Me: Yes, but I was half way across the world! I figure I’ll just stop by your house every day, and… you know.
Mom: Marie, that is not a plan.
But it was the best I could do. A week before marrying the person I wanted to share my everything with, and I was crafting elaborate schemes so that I could hide my disgusting habit of “releasing myself”.
The wedding came and went, and Mark and I were packing up to leave for the honeymoon. I hugged my mom goodbye and she whispered sternly into my ear, “Poop“.
I ignored her. I would poop when I got back. At their house. There was no way to convince me otherwise.
We made it to our honeymoon hotel and I plopped down on the bed disappointed that where we were staying did NOT look like the brochures. Advertising lies. Shocking.
As I started to complain about the bed, Mark walked past me, “I have got to go to the bathroom.”
Oh, no. It was the first time since we’d arrived that I realized that no matter how much I may want to poop during our stay I would have to wait. I would not have the luxury Mark obviously had of just going whenever I wanted. I had promised myself. No poop. I began to mentally run through all the items I could and could not eat.
And then I heard Mark call out from the bathroom, “Everybody loves to poop.”
I honestly have no clue why he said that other than the fact that there IS a God. And that God knows me. He knows that one of my most favorite movie scenes of all time is in Billy Madison when the kid pees his pants and Adam Sandler pours water on himself and proclaims that “you ain’t cool unless you pee your pants”.
God was giving me the gift of my very own Billy Madison, championing my right to poop. Everybody does love to poop, goshdarnit. It’s practically THE American past time!
And so I pooped, and loved it. And I was fully confident that this man had married me and all my crap, too!
If you are one of those people that thinks I’m “crazy”, I suggest you go read this. The lady thinks her husband doesn’t know she poops because she runs the shower at the same time. That’s either pure genius or pure crazy. I’m still deciding.