The #2 situation

How’s work goin’, Hed?

It is unbelievably good. I am actually joyful about work. It’s totally twisted.

And I keep waiting for the other shoe to drop, but as my co-workers remind me daily: “There is no other shoe here.”

There’s really only one thing I’d change (besides the Super Sized commute), and that’s the #2 situation.

The #2 situation?

Yes. The #2 situation.

We moved to new office space a few weeks ago (same building, one floor up) and it’s a fabulous open loft with gorgeous, panoramic views of the city, high ceilings, and amazing artwork.

And the crappers. Are smack dab in the middle of everything.

Yep.

No more pretending to take a walk while sneaking away for bowel-related breaks.

Nope.

Every time you go to the bathroom in my office, you're sending a memo to the world: YOUR CO-WORKER IS CRAPPING.
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A long time ago I went on a weekend road trip to northern Michigan with a guy from work.

We’d just left the office when he said: “Did you go to the bathroom? Because I’d like to drive straight through if possible.”

I’ve always been a trooper when it comes to extended car rides. In my pre-Jim/Gromit days, I could do five hours straight from Chicago to eastern Michigan on one tank of gas while drinking a Big Gulp. No stops.

But because this butt-munch essentially banned bathroom breaks, my brain broke and I had to pee pretty much every 20 minutes all the way to Petoskey.

We weren’t dating or even screwing yet (although I think he wanted to), and if the incessant pissing wasn’t enough to kill his ardor, farting on him later that weekend certainly did.

But that’s a story for another day.
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Anyhow. The road trip. With the Potty Nazi.

That’s how it was the first week in the new office. The bathroom situation caused another brain breakdown.

“DON’T PEE DON’T PEE DON’T PEE” I kept saying, but my cursed kidneys weren’t listening.

So every 20 minutes, I’m in there. Peeing.
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The real bummer is that the women’s restroom in my office is Exceptionally Nice.

Candles. Potpourri. Lotion. Hairspray. And plenty of room spray, too.

But I can’t enjoy it.

Every time I’m in there, I imagine my co-workers gathered outside, setting their stopwatches to see How Long She’s in There This Time.

They’re taking bets. Playing Mule/No Mule. While I struggle to squeeze one out.
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As you can imagine, the #2 situation is worse.

The irony is, I’m a fairly regular bathroom person. Mornings are my time. I’m a pre-shower pooper. Or I used to be.

Now, nothing.

I consider this the ultimate betrayal by my body. That’s saying a lot after 40+ years of hard living.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
“Hey, Heather, would you like to try some of this?”

I look behind me and it’s co-worker Katie brandishing a bottle of Pink Lemonade Metamucil.

Dead serious.

“It’s new!” she says enthusiastically. “I love it.”

I stop short of saying that simply being in an office with stage-like shitters is enough to ensure my system stays streamlined, thanks so much, but I’m new here and don’t want to be rude so I partake in the poop juice.

The paranoid part of me thinks the Metamucil break was a big jokey jab at the New Person, but later the same day, good-hearted (and obviously bountifully-boweled) Katie offers some to an interview candidate.

Can you imagine? You’re interviewing for an executive assistant position and someone offers you laxative laden refreshments.

"Um, thanks, but I'm already nervous enough without worrying about crapping my pants. Don't you have some Tropicana?"

Although now that I think of it - it's ingenious. Prepares the new people for public pooping.

Perfect.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: Kid Rock – All Summer Long
I am reading: Drunkard by Neil Steinberg
And I am: Holding it in