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by on April 4, 2013

It’s true. I poop at work. I don’t make it a goal to do so, but it happens. Usually an hour or so after I’ve finished my second cup of coffee. There’s something in that delectable rich mix of caffeine and sugar that gets my poop shoot working.

I work in a bank building, my office is on the third floor. Also on this floor are insurance brokers, an IT company, and a law firm. Most of the people that work on my floor are women. There is just 1 bathroom on this floor, one toilet, one sink, no stalls.

I know I’m not the only one that poops at work because I’ve walked into the bathroom only to be assaulted just moments later by a wall of destruction that simultaneously makes my eyes water and my nose attempt to vacate my face and make for high ground. We have a small spray bottle of Fabreeze air-freshner that sits on the counter, but there is only so much that spring time flowers can do to cover the recourse of Taco Tuesday.

I used to be appalled at the thought of pooping anywhere but my house. Hell, my husband didn’t know I pooped for the first year we dated, I was stealthy. Then I had kids…

I had that fear that everyone experiences when you get closer to delivery and find out that indeed the same muscles that you use to squeeze one off are the very muscles you’ll use to bring forth life into this world. You worry about what happens when you’re in the middle of pushing and it’s not infant that pops out, but yesterday’s turkey casserole. You fear for what the doctor and nurses must think of you, this grunting, sweaty, screamy woman trying your best to have a motion picture perfect delivery. You cannot even FATHOM the fact that your husband might get a glance of it while you’re pushing. Then you actually get to the delivery part and you realize that nothing else matters beyond getting this horrible thing out of your body. And that’s when it happens… you poop on the table. And you don’t care. At all. Not…one…bit.

And in that moment you become some sort of superhuman that can withstand all sorts of embarrassment because you realize there are countless other women in the world, some even in the room right next to you, that have experienced the exact same thing. Modesty goes out the window and practicality takes over.

This often (although not always) continues as your child grows. Not only do you spend your days cleaning up their excrement, but you learn that when you have to go it’s best to just get it done and move on with your day. No more waiting until you get home. Forget waiting until you get to your hotel, the airport bathroom was MADE for this moment.

It’s a miracle at home if you get to poop without the audience of 2-year-old twins standing and applauding you (like you did for them when they first pooped in the potty) so you take the joy that pooping alone at work brings. And you kinda enjoy it. Not the act itself, but the peace that comes from not having to do this private act with 2 sets of eyes glued to you and the dogs nose in your underwear.

You even kinda giggle when the fancy lawyer lady passes you in the hallway leading to the bathroom knowing what you have just done in there. Life goes on, no one mentions anything, and the Fabreeze can gets replaced when it’s empty.

So yes, I poop at work. I’m that person… and I don’t apologize. It’s life, get over it. And if you dare, giggle when you visualize the 5’7″ high heeled wearing, nylon legged, short skirted, perfect nails/hair/make-up, silk shirted woman walking into my wall of stink and tearing up. I know I’m having a chuckle.


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One Comment
  1. b.rain permalink

    I purposely time my shits to occur at work…. there’s something amazingly sublime about dropping a deuce in a public place….

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