I prefer to be more realistic: When you start announcing your poop schedule to your beloved, you might as well buy your adjacent cemetery plots now, because CONGRATULATIONS, you just bought a one-way ticket to Metamucilville, party of two, five p.m., no seats by the window, please, it’s too bright and I have astigmatism.
But let’s rewind.
See, just as your heart starts skipping beats at the first flush of love/lust, so does your colon start skipping daily deliveries. You know how it goes: You live in fear of needing to poop in the general vicinity of your new paramour, and then all of a sudden your body adjusts. You could eat a trough of pears topped off with some three-bean salad and tumbleweeds would continue to just roll past your silent sphincter. Life is good, if a bit bloated.
Then, once you’re cohabitating, things start to relax. As long as you have a scented bathroom candle and some emergency matches you can begin to take your time “plucking your eyebrows” with the faucet running.
But it’s a slippery slope, friends.
Fast-forward a dozen or so years and suddenly you find yourself emerging from the can with your pants around your ankles, making the arm signal referees use to signify a successful field goal.
Not at all.
The romance is so alive in my house that I haven’t pooped since the Bush administration.
George H. W.
It’s amazing I can even walk.