Feeding The White Monster

Couples always have inside jokes or things that make them giggle. For my man and me poop is our connective thread that keeps us laughing and shaking our heads.

I have extreme difficulty go #2 in front of anyone. In college I would wait until nighttime, sneak down to the hall to the latrine and turn the faucets on, so if someone did come in they wouldn't hear me. My roommate, Mary Ann, caught on to my shenanigans and followed me one night, turned off the faucets and teased me.

"We can hear you."

Noooooooo!

Dating is hard when you have a poop complex. You are horrified if you feel the urge when visiting your significant other's digs. There is NO way you want your beau to know that you actually are capable of dropping the kids off at the pool. You want him to forever see you as the fartless, poopless, and sexy goddess that you are.

For my poor guy, he learned early on that I do in fact poop.

On our first planned "sexy" weekend, Jason treated me to dinner at a Brazilian Grill. Delicious varieties of meat were shaved onto my plate for nearly two hours. When all was said and done I was uncomfortably full and felt like I did as a kid at Thanksgiving--bloated and nauseous.
Things started to take a turn for the worse when we arrived at my house.

"I don't feel that great," Jason said.

"Me either," I said.

We rallied though and hit a local bar to watch a hockey game. With our stomachs bursting at the seams we couldn't even manage to sip our respective beers.

Around the second period is when the meat burps started.

Jason turned his head to avoid torturing me with the foul air that came from his mouth as he belched.

Unfortunately the couple sitting to his right did not. As the smell hit them they squinched their noses and glared at him.

"I think we should go. My stomach isn't feeling good," he said.

On our way home we hit up a local pharmacy to purchase some Pepto and Gas-X. Even before we started the car, both of us took giant swigs off of the pink bottle.

Once home, things got even uglier.

"I have to use the bathroom," Jason said. "Can you go downstairs," he asked.

Apparently he also had a poop complex.

"Sure," I said.

As I lay down, the pain in my stomach increased. I tried to find a comfortable position as I writhed in pain.

Finally Jay emerged from the bathroom and I ran in. I didn't even care about the smell that he tried to mask with a match.

I turned on the faucet and screamed at him to turn the radio up and to go downstairs. He complied and I released the beast that was clawing from inside of me.

For the rest of the night we took turns in the bathroom. At one point Jason gave my toilet a break and drove to the local McDonald's to relieve himself.

Needless to say there was nothing "sexy" about our first "sexy" weekend.

Eventually we fell asleep out of sheer exhaustion.

As I rolled over to look at him the next morning I felt as if I had been through a battle. My intestines were sore from cleansing the colon.

Jason opened his eyes and looked at me and we both just started to laugh. With tears streaming down our faces we replayed the events from the night before.

In that moment I think I knew, what I probably already did the minute I met him. He was in this for the long haul. It has nothing to do with my looks, my body, or my bodily functions. Jason sees "me". Very few people in my life have really stopped to look. So many relationships, both romantic and otherwise, are surface.

When someone looks past the exterior and into your soul, when they can still look into your eyes and make you feel like the most beautiful girl in the world after a night of feeding the white monster, you know you've got a keeper.