Another Pooping Tale

When I was a young man, just starting out in my career, I worked with another young fellow, a fellow who seemed completely enamoured with his bodily functions. He could describe, in some detail and with some alarmingly accurate descriptiveness, the process of evacuating his bowels, the state of the results therefrom, and the feelings of his colon thereafter. He freaked me out. While his story is one of the odd events in my life, I share it now only as a warning. The next few paragraphs will be about going poo.

I try very hard to be regular; I want to use the toilet when I get out of bed. This is simply an exercise in reducing the effort it takes for me to live my day. When I get up, I am in my underwear, underwear which need to be changed. When I go to the toilet, I remove said undergarments, and, using them as a cover for my wheelchair, go back onto my bed once I am finished with whatever needs to be done in the bathroom. Then I dress in clean clothes suitable for the day. Sometimes I even put on pants.

Were I not to do this, I would be compelled to get dressed at least twice in a day, an activity which, at its simplest, can be exhausting for me. I have not yet devolved to wearing a kilt and going commando. I'm not there yet. I know some who are. I am not one of them. Getting dressed, however, takes a bit of work for me. If you've ever seen even a part of this process, you know the wiggle for underwear, the combativeness of compression socks, the pluck required to put on pants. The only thing easy about getting dressed is sliding on a shirt. The whole process just wears me out.

Unfortunately this morning, the whole process was blocked, so to speak. I went to the toilet where I discovered that my body and gravity simply were not enough to complete the process. A very dry stool decided to take up residence just above the local sphincter, refusing all efforts to evict it. I spent a half an hour, working as best I could, waiting for the downward push of weakened muscles to combine with the downward pull of the earth. I failed. I did several other things which I simply am not willing to describe, all to convince my anal sphincter to let its contents go. I failed again, and again.

Ultimately I surrendered. I went to get off the toilet. At that point the little bastard decided to trick me, moving ever so slightly, peeking its head out like a borrowing owl from a prairie hole. I went back and the bastard retreated inward. I gave up once again, knowing full well that there was just enough of that little shit poking out to stain anything I sat on. I cleaned, and cleaned, and cleaned again. Then, taking my life in my hands, I transferred to my wheelchair and went to get dressed.

Now that I am up, I am certain I will have to use the toilet once again. This will mean getting on the toilet, wiggling my jeans down, wiggling my underwear off, and positioning myself. All the while that cruel resident of my lower colon will be waiting for me, waiting for that moment when I am least prepared, waiting to explode outward, making as much mess as possible. And that will require a complete change of clothing afterwards.

Some days my life is shitty. Some days it really sucks to be me. Some days I wish I could just take a simple stop, drop and go. Alas, not today.