Go

For some repressed reason, I resist answering nature’s number two call in a public restroom. In fact, unless it is a dire emergency, I’ll gamble. This is one of those times.

𝟮𝟬 𝗺𝗶𝗻𝘂𝘁𝗲𝘀 𝗲𝗮𝗿𝗹𝗶𝗲𝗿: Grocery shopping.

𝟭𝟱 𝗺𝗶𝗻𝘂𝘁𝗲𝘀 𝗲𝗮𝗿𝗹𝗶𝗲𝗿: A warning shot across the bow. I pick up the pace but still feel I have time to get the necessary items.

𝟭𝟯 𝗺𝗶𝗻𝘂𝘁𝗲𝘀 𝗲𝗮𝗿𝗹𝗶𝗲𝗿: I have reached the point where the warning becomes amplified. I need to di di mau (haul ass) right now, ladies and gentlemen. I wisely decide that I’ll have to come back for the remainder of the groceries.  

𝟭𝟭 𝗺𝗶𝗻𝘂𝘁𝗲𝘀 𝗲𝗮𝗿𝗹𝗶𝗲𝗿: In a maddeningly long grocery line, behind two ancient people who insist on removing their groceries at a snail’s pace and bicker while doing so, I curse myself for always choosing the wrong damn line and question why this place is so busy. Then, I focus both my vision and growing frustration on the geriatric Aqua-Net-wearing lady who, instead of filling in her check blank while the clerk is scanning items, waits until he’s done.

𝟭𝟬 𝗺𝗶𝗻𝘂𝘁𝗲𝘀 𝗲𝗮𝗿𝗹𝗶𝗲𝗿: I’m in serious trouble, and of course I wanna share this agony with my husband, but after a thorough search of my handbag, I realize that I left my phone at home. Again.

This is where my normally calm demeanor goes south.

God, can this line move any slower? My lips compress into a tight line. My eyes squint as I blow a frustrated breath out my nose. And as if it couldn’t get any worse, the clueless old bat asks the clerk’s name. Oh my FREAKIN’ God, people! Can we NOT!?

The defensive name-tagless clerk asks, “What do you wanna know my name for?!” She offers some cockamamie explanation that I wasn’t listening to because, by this point, I’m shifting from one foot to the other and imagining shoving a can or two of Aqua Net hairspray up her polyester-clad how-de-do.

𝟵 𝗺𝗶𝗻𝘂𝘁𝗲𝘀 𝗲𝗮𝗿𝗹𝗶𝗲𝗿: The clerk relents and tells her his name. Tick tock, people! Let’s go so I can go! I glance behind me to find the line is now longer than Crystal Gayle’s hair. The daft but well-meaning fossil smiles and says something I didn’t hear through my red haze.

Then she roots around in her suitcase of a purse and eventually pulls out three individually wrapped candies. She slowly (Fuck! Does this woman have a second gear?!) gives them to the checker and says with a smile, “There you go, dear. You have a good day,” and pats his arm. Meanwhile, I’m internally rolling my eyes and thinking, Candy? Really, great-great oblivious grandma? REALLY?! Who in the hell hands out candy at a checkout line, especially when it is insanely busy?!

Just fuck me dead. Right now. Fuck. Me. Dead.

𝟳 𝗺𝗶𝗻𝘂𝘁𝗲𝘀 𝗲𝗮𝗿𝗹𝗶𝗲𝗿: The no-longer-nameless checkout dude thanks her, and as she and her husband toddle off, he tosses the candy into the garbage. He efficiently scans and bags my 12 items and robotically bids me a good day. I eye the public restroom sign, and since I am already clenching my bum cheeks, I wonder if I should use it. I quickly dismiss the idea, because, apparently, potentially shitting my pants is preferable. Meh, I rationalize, it’s Walmart.

𝟱 𝗺𝗶𝗻𝘂𝘁𝗲𝘀 𝗲𝗮𝗿𝗹𝗶𝗲𝗿: I’m fully regretting my decision. Lamaze breathing now. Hard. I realize that trying to fast-walk while squeezing my buttocks is, in actuality, slowing me down. Fuck! Why did I park so effing far away?! Oh my GOD! I’m in Hell. Inside my mind, I’m yelling and cussing at myself.

𝟰 𝗺𝗶𝗻𝘂𝘁𝗲𝘀 𝗲𝗮𝗿𝗹𝗶𝗲𝗿: Groceries are stowed, and after arguing with myself to leave the cart, I just couldn’t do it. Damn it, strong moral compass! More butt cheek squishing/fast-walking (it’s more like hobbling, really) as I put the cart in the corral. It’s at this point that I break out in goosebumps. Oooh, ooooh. Danger, Will Robinson!

𝟯 𝗺𝗶𝗻𝘂𝘁𝗲𝘀 𝗲𝗮𝗿𝗹𝗶𝗲𝗿: I am breathing like I just ran a marathon, and really getting into the exhalations. I start to pray: Okay, God. Three minutes. That’s all I need. Three minutes. Then, a pep talk: Come on, Melissa. You can do this! You’ve been in worse situations and been just fine.  And then more prayer: Please, Universe! Puhhhlease don’t let me suffer this indignity. I’ve already been through so much!

𝟮 𝗺𝗶𝗻𝘂𝘁𝗲𝘀 𝗲𝗮𝗿𝗹𝗶𝗲𝗿: In the safety of my car, my breathing morphs into something tornadic-sounding. More cheerleading: Omg, I can do this. I can! I’m almost home. Come on, come on, Traffic God, green lights only! Green o-! Awwww, fuck. Red light. Son of a b-. More violent exhalations; these now accompanied by airborne spittle and animated head bobbing. Fiercely drumming my fingers, I realize that an internal high-pitched keening has begun, and I wonder if I should come up with a Plan B, you know, just in case.

𝟯𝟬 𝘀𝗲𝗰𝗼𝗻𝗱𝘀 𝗲𝗮𝗿𝗹𝗶𝗲𝗿: A jackrabbit start from the red light, which is so aggressive and totally unlike me. Desperate times, desperate measures. Then I put the pedal to the metal on our street, something I bitch about when others do it. Maybe, I now think, they had to pooh, too?

𝟭𝟱 𝘀𝗲𝗰𝗼𝗻𝗱𝘀 𝗲𝗮𝗿𝗹𝗶𝗲𝗿: Arriving at our driveway, I barely tap the brakes and turn sharply, spilling the groceries. Glad I didn’t buy eggs. Preemptively, I undo my seat belt and give thanks that I’m wearing elastic-waisted shorts. Once in the garage, I don’t wait for the car to come to a full stop; instead, I slam it into park while opening the door.

5 seconds earlier: Go, speed racer! GO! Just a few more steps! Still blowing out loud, whooshing breaths, the internal keening noise amplifies, and I start squealing externally as I enter the house.

You’re sooooo close, Momma! Yeah, in more ways than one!

Zero Hour: I’m not even stopping to take off my shoes (I have killed for less!), and after a race to the bathroom with my dignity intact, I pant, “Thank you, God. Pheeeew! I made it!” This was followed by a victorious fist pump and a celebratory shout, “Yaaaaas! Woooohoooo!”

10 seconds later: Why do I do this? I mean, really, Melissa, it’s horrible for your body! But even as I chide myself, I know I am not alone. I know that I – and maybe you – have been gambling with this for decades and will do so again soon. Sadly.