The first time my boyfriend and I travelled together we had only been dating for three months. Not surprisingly, we hadn’t reached that pivotal point in a relationship where you feel comfortable expressing bodily functions, namely pooping.
In general, when I’m around someone I’m dating, just the thought of pee’ing makes me cringe. I can’t help but wonder if the other person can hear me and so I try and go slow, which only makes me panic more. Thinking, oh no, I’m taking too long, they probably think I’m poo’ing, which is infinitely more embarrassing than the sound of my pee.
Traveling doesn’t help matters either. The second time I went to Europe, I realized I have a high maintenance ass, which doesn’t like to go on other toilets. Consequently, I spent most of the trip constipated. On the sixth day, I was so bloated and desperate that I went to a pharmacy. Lucky for me, laxative translates from English to Italian. Had it not, I would have done interpretive dance, whatever it took, for the pharmacist to understand my needs. This is how I spent my first morning in Rome, occupying the bathroom of a small restaurant on the edge of the city. And then God said, let there be shit.
Knowing this, I prepared myself for the possibility of discomfort. However, when my boyfriend and I arrived to our Lisbon hotel room I quickly realized the situation was worse than I had imagined. The bathroom door in our hotel room, if you could even call it a door, was a transparent piece of glass that did not completely close off the bathroom. It was neither sound or smell proof. Moreover, it left absolutely nothing to the imagination, which only made my phobia worse.
As expected, I immediately clenched up and couldn’t poop. While I expected to feel bloated, what I failed to take into account is that feeling bloated is the antithesis of feeling sexy. By day four it was clear that my problem was getting in the way of our romantic getaway.
I felt bad making up excuses however, I was too embarrassed to tell him the truth. This didn't last long. Eventually, I ran out of ways of avoiding sex. Besides the last thing I wanted him to think is that it was his fault; something had to be done. Reluctantly, I broke down and told him what was going on.
Being the understanding gentleman that he is, he offered to leave the hotel room for an hour or two so that I could relax and do my business. I refused but he insisted. He left and came back and yet still nothing. Apparently, my ass is also stubborn.
Once again, I found myself desperate and bloated in a foreign place. Out of options, I went to a pharmacy and bought a magic pill, which would most undoubtedly end my relationship.
The pill kicked in the next day, while we were out having our morning coffee at a cute Italian café down the street from our hotel. I excused myself to use the bathroom and twenty minutes later, I emerged; acutely aware that both he and the waiter knew, what I had been doing. No one powders their nose for more than 15 minutes. Had the restaurant been crowded, I would have blamed it on the lines, however, no such luck. Humiliated, I quickly paid the bill and returned to the hotel where we spent the rest of our afternoon, me in the bathroom, my boyfriend a meter away on the bed watching television.
I figured he'd leave. After all, who wants to be with the girl who blows up a bathroom? Turns out, my boyfriend. When he stayed, I knew we had crossed the threshold from like to love.
A few hours later on our plane ride home he told me he loved me for the first time, which only goes to show every relationship has its shit but some is good shit.
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