A petition to poop freely

I was about three-quarters of the way through my first basic girls’ night skinny margarita when the woman sitting to my right, a friend of mine for several years, uttered seven words I doubt I’ll ever forget.

“I don’t poop when my husband’s around.”

I froze mid-sip and slowly turned to meet her gaze, eyes wide and obviously incredulous. She was one of them. I didn’t see it coming. 

Nothing could have prepared me for the stark realization that my friend, known to most as a no-frills, call-it-like-I-see-it, honest-even-if-it-makes-me-unpopular kind of gal, was officially among the ranks of Women Who Pretend They Don’t Poop (WWPTDP). I was gobsmacked, I tell you.  

Sure, I’ve known WWPTDPs in my lifetime. I went to college with them. I’ve worked alongside them. I’ve even attended relatively raucous bachelorette parties with them, penis straws in hand. I typically regard WWPTDPs as acquaintances, but I’ve never had one in my inner circle. At least, I didn’t think I had. 

These types of women are one of God’s own mysteries to me. Pure enigma. And trust me: I’ve done the mental legwork here. I’ve tried time and time again to put myself in the shoes of a woman who, in my friend’s case, regarded her husband as her best friend, her partner, the person with whom she is absolutely the most intimate, but found herself unable to admit that defecation was a part of her life. She bore two of his children. She bared her soul during couple’s counseling when things went from rocky to close to irreparable. By no means could you accuse her of being someone who censored herself for anyone, much less her own spouse. 

What unfolded after my friend’s confession was a tale – a playbook, really – of how she’s been able to avoid pooping in her own home while in her husband’s presence for the better part of a decade. It was detailed, exhaustive…and it did exhaust me just listening to it. She divulged her reasoning, offering a half-hearted explanation about how leaving something to the imagination keeps their relationship strong. 

At least I think that’s what she said. Truth be told, I was lost in my own head wondering how we’d managed to be friends for so many years without her status as a WWPTDP being brought to light. It was like finding out your boss was a former member of a cult, or discovering your brother doesn’t like cheese, or something else equally shocking. It just did not compute. 

“The question I continue to grapple with is this: Why is acknowledging poop so hard for us to do? ”

The question I continue to grapple with is this: Why is acknowledging poop so hard for us to do? Our bodies are self-contained units of perfect design, including our capacity for efficient waste elimination. It’s literally the most natural process humans possess. This. Should. Not. Be. Weird. 

Yet, I can practically see you now, WWPTDP, reading this article and squirming. And I get it: Most seem to struggle with copping to the fact that pooping is a thing we all do — at least in more formal settings. 

You can’t swing a cow without hitting a coworker who’s been caught in the dreaded poop stalemate. You know what I’m talking about. It’s just you and Lisa from Accounts Payable in the ladies’, both sitting there motionless and in complete and endlessly awkward silence while your sphincters are screaming to let loose. 

Do it, ladies. This has to end. 

I myself have broken the Feces Fourth Wall only once, mustering up the courage to utter through the partition to my fellow hostage, “I know you have to go. If you do, I will, too.” And we did. It was incredibly liberating. 

I’ve even met women who, fortunate enough to work close to home, have left the office mid-day to attend to their bowels from the comfort of their own commodes, strolling in just in time for their 3:00 pm meeting looking all wild-eyed and panicked. “Do they know?!” their eyes say. 

Personally, I’ve been known to take the elevator up to the first-floor bathroom — like a good American — or to walk briskly to the facilities in the wing at the opposite end of the building… you know, where the nameless employees sit. Who cares if they know? 

But to attempt to deceive my own husband into thinking he married the only woman who doesn’t ever feel the need to, as my mother would say, have a moving moment? That’s where I draw the line. 

Hear me now, good women of the world: THE JIG IS UP. They know. The men know that even the daintiest of dames, the finest of females, and the most badass of lady bosses have to rid ourselves of excrement, and usually daily. Turns out we’re not fooling anyone. Furthermore, if you’ve ever had the misfortune of wandering errantly into a men’s rancid restroom, you know that their feelings about holding back when others may be in earshot are quite different from the average woman’s. 

While I still wrestle with trying to understand WWPTDPs from a rational standpoint, more than anything, I feel a stitch of sadness for them, and specifically for my friend. She’ll never know one of my life’s singular joys: letting my husband walk blindly into the master bathroom I only recently vacated and hearing his immediate, audible disgust followed by a strenuous “You need to go see a doctor.” 

It strengthens our relationship. I’m sure of it.