Not only is my bowel irritated by certain foods -- goodbye delicious, creamy, cheesy Alfredo sauce -- but also nerves. And I seem to get nervous a lot. Just ask my ass. Doctors appointments, new crazy dogs, presentations at work, life in general... it all makes me nervous. Lately my guts have been a churning bundle of nerves. And with those nerves comes the shits. Probably a good thing I didn't come face to face to RPattz in NYC -- who knows what kind of mess I would have made! Embarrassing.
Seems like everything irritates my bowel these days. I haven't had a good, hearty, solid shit in weeks. Sucks getting old.
I've known friends with IBS and their tales of barely making it to the bathroom after eating a specific food had me scared shitless. Literally. And I experienced such an event after a particularly delicious meal at Longhorn Steakhouse one night. Stupidly, I had opted not to use the facilities before embarking on my 30 minute ride home. Mistake. Big mistake.
About 10 minutes into the drive, I was hit with pains so intense, I could barely drive. My head starting spinning, but I pressed on... praying I could make it home without shitting my pants. As I passed my last chance at relief - the last exit before a 10 mile stretch of woods, the pain intensified. No able to clench my butt cheeks together any longer, I was forced to pull over at a rest area. A very scary, very deserted rest area. I almost couldn't get out of the car as I was positive the seat was the very thing keeping the poo in.
I slowly extricated myself from the vehicle and walked very fast -- albeit with very small steps -- into the dimly let restroom where I was positive a hockey-masked figure would viciously murder me with a machete and leave me dying in a pile of my own feces. Not the way I wanted to be remembered. I can just imagine the eulogy.
While I did make it to the toilet without incident, the intestinal pain made a torturous death by an ax murderer seem like the easy way out. I pity the poor cleaning person who stumbled upon that fucking toxic waste dump. It was definitely not my finest hour.
When I walked in the front door of my house, my face must have told the story. My husband asked what had happened to me. I told him I had a near poo-tastrophe... I was playing Russian poo-lette. That's the last time I don't visit the ladies room before I leave a restaurant.