second of all - i am beginning to fear old age. i am not even 40 yet (for a good bit and a bit) and already my innards are giving me grief. i have said before that we eat a lot of vegetables and thus have no...ahem...regularity issues at our house. you could say (and i distinctly recall having done so in this very blog) that at our house, pooping is fun. unfortunately for moi, my body is failing to give me much notice of the blessed event about to take place.
it is normal, for a normal person, to (normally) feel that twinge in the intestinal area, letting him know that peristalsis is taking place and that, given a wee bit of time, there will at some point in the near but not necessarily immediate future come a need to void. soon. but no hurry. enough time to saunter home, pick up the paper on the way, put the kettle on, pet the dog, ask the spouse about her day and slowly make one's way to the bathroom.
not me, folks. it's wham, bam, NOW ma'am!
there were moments in chicago when i thought it'd be me, by the side of the (eternally busy) interstate, ass hanging out, devil may care in the face of the Need That Dare Not Be Denied. it never did come to this, but it was close. they don't have restrooms in gas stations there, we soon found out, on account of the possibility of crack deals and armed weaponry and such. poor poor moi.
pretty soon i had all of chicago mapped by accessible public restrooms. you want to take a leak on the gold coast? let me tell you where. old town? sure! magnificent mile? i know a place or three, just ask.
mister monkey has by necessity been lassoed into a position of official BM enabler. when i give the signal (usually the same area 3-5 blocks away from our house, funny that), he starts to run. by the time i waddle home (sphincters clenched, cold sweat on my brow, body wracked by feverish spasms) he has the storm and main doors open, furniture moved out of the way, the light on, and our independent weekly placed conveniently by the side of the toilet,* so that i can shed shoes and coats on my frenzied dash inside. good man.
and i figure if it's this bad in my thirties, what will my sixties have in store for me? first it's short notice, then it's no notice, and before you know it i will have soiled myself before even becoming aware of the need to do so. adult incontinence products - here i come!
*this is really rather useless because by the time i open it to the page of my choice i am done. none of that lingering over a novel, cutting the circulation from my legs. nope - it's guerilla pooping: get in, get it done, get out.