You’re definitely going to judge me on this one and frankly, it’s warranted.

I’m probably in the minority here, but I find a weird, calming sense of camaraderie when pooping in a public toilet next to a stranger.

Let me flush that out.

You’re right. That was a shitty pun.

Ok. That was the last one. I promise.

At some point, we collectively decided to stigmatize shitting, a bodily function we all do.

I poop. I know you poop. You know I poop and yet, we’re all embarrassed to admit that we do it. Girls will even go as far to deny that they even release flatulence into the world. The moment we exit the safe confines of our home, it’s suddenly taboo to poo poo.

Whenever I’m out and feel that distinctly familiar pinch in my gut signifying that my fiber intake for the day has been sufficient, a sense of dread consumes me. What if the closest facility is one of those disrespectful bathrooms that only houses two or three toilets? What if there’s a line of people waiting for me to finish as they stand pigeon toed hopping about as they contort their legs into shapes I never seem to be able to pull off in a yoga class, but can somehow achieve with ease when my bowels are full? Even worse—what if there’s only one other person in the bathroom when I enter who is about to become an unwilling participant in a one-woman stunt show?

There are a few unwritten rules of pooping in a public stall.

I initially wrote pubic earlier, which I almost left, but I promised you no more poop jokes. 

Back to the rules:

For men, one must never stand directly next to another man at the urinals. The appropriate distance is as far away as possible, which could mean going to another bathroom in a different building or floor altogether so as not to potentially cross streams or accidentally turn gay by seeing another man’s penis. Should the force of bladder prove to be too strong and it is not possible to find another urinal, one should stand at least one urinal away from the first man. No talking, but soft sighs of relief are admissible.

For women, one must always be ashamed to do almost anything outside of a quick tinkle. If one is fortunate enough to not be with child, but unfortunate enough to be on the cotton train to barren town, opening feminine hygiene products will prove to be quite a cumbersome experience. A lady must never let a stranger lady know that behind a bathroom stall she is tending to her leaking uterus and must attempt to discreetly open the plugging materials in question, which are wrapped in the same ear-drum shattering material used to hold sheet cakes purchased from the supermarket. If she fails in her challenge, hot girl summer will never see the light of day again. The lady in question may ask for a tampon from a lady prior to entering the stall or from a trusted friend who entered with her, but she shant ask a stranger or woman who may have entered the stall after her.

For all, courtesy flushes are mandatory to hide any and all sounds erupting from your nethers or to avoid accidentally overhearing your boo boo buddy’s battle cries as well as removing any unpleasant odors that may avail themselves during your time on the throne.

Also for all, phones are acceptable inside of the stall, but only as a portable computer for checking emails, sending texts, and trolling on Instagram. Do not take phones into the stalls and actually make phone calls. Not only will the strangers in the bathroom judge you harshly, whomever the unfortunate soul is on the other line, will question their entire relationship with you.

Go with me on this journey. I know I’ve taken you through a lot already, but like childhood bullying, it eventually gets better.

Imagine walking into a stall to do the doo. You line the seat with toilet paper or maybe you don’t because you’re gross, sit down and relax. Just as you’re about to throw some d’s on it, the bathroom door opens and you hear a stranger walk in.

You hold. Hoping. Waiting. Wishing your bathroom buddy is here for a good time, not a long time. There’s a slight pause and then that first tinkle. Great. An in and out situation and you’re free to get back to business.

A beat passes.

Two.

Three.

Forty-eight.

Shit.

They too, are here to poo. You shuffle slightly to avoid having your legs cramp up and know that they are now painfully aware of your presence.

There’s no going back now. You’re both stuck there in a battle of the butts. Who’s been hitting those glute exercises better and can hold it in?

Now, imagine this–

Instead of finding yourself in that awful stand-off, you and your booty boo silently agree to just… poop. It’s me and you, bud against the undigested world!

Judgement is tossed out of the window, noses are plugged with stray tissues, and the sounds of past meals departing are muffled by the slobbery smacks of Poseidon’s kisses. That sensation is not just feeling yourself becoming five pounds lighter. That, my unbloated friend, is freedom. The freedom to not fear the judgement of someone who is doing something equally as foul as you in a public space and the confidence to accept that you’re a human who doesn’t give a shit—because you just lost it to the porcelain beast.

I know I said I was done with those, but it felt so right.

Maybe, if you’re feeling really wild, you’ll reach under the stall and shake your (new?) friend’s hand forever binding you together as commode compadres. 

Actually, don’t do that. It will be weird and also germs.

I’ll regret this post later.