Alright, so I recognize my last few posts have been a bit lackluster (really, a bit on elevators?). I’m sorry! If you can believe it, weird things just haven’t been happening to me lately! Maybe it’s possible I’ve paid my dues and the universe has moved on…
Ya, ya, I won’t bet on it, but before I go on a bit of a posting break, I’ve decided to dig back into the ol’ archives of my life and leave you with a poop story.
Right about now, my mother is throwing her hands in the air and giving up hope of grandchildren.
But really, let’s think about this for a second and put the poop into perspective. Thus far, I’ve only had five note-worthy personal poop mishaps in my life: Two of which you’ve heard about ( “The Grass is Slippery” and It’s all fun and games until you shit in the woods), one of which you’re about to hear about, and two of which I’m saving to share either after I’ve landed a man, or for decent profit.
So that means of the approximately 21,000 poops I’ve had in my life (an average of two poops per day, so 730 poops per year x 28.5 years I’ve been alive + the sometimes multiple poops a day factor + the couple of bouts of gastroenteritis factor), only 0.02% of my poops have been weird.
0.02%. Pssh. That’s not even close to being a real percentage.
But Lauren, you 100% shouldn’t be sharing this information with the public…or spending any of your time doing poop calculations.
Meh. And they say math is good for nothing…
You might recall from my post, Ski-sus Christ, it’s almost winter!, that I took up skiing a few years ago. That first year, my ski buddies were a new group of friends. I was just getting to know them and back then, I cared a lot more about what other people think of me. So in my self-conscious mind, God forbid I hold up the group for a few minutes on our way to a local ski hill, even in the event of an emergency. So I didn’t. And this is what happened.
I was looking to lose a few pounds having put on my usual winter weight by January. The decision may or may not have coincided with the fact that I recently had to write down my weight on a form to rent skis and a male friend looked at my number (which was actually underestimated) and reacted with shock. I decided the best course of action to kick-start some healthy eating habits would be a few days on a cabbage soup diet.
You see where this is going.
I was a couple of days into this ridiculous idea of mine when we decided to plan a day trip of skiing. That morning, I drove across the city from my place to where we were all meeting at a friend’s house to carpool. Halfway there, since I was alone, I reluctantly let out what I thought was going to be an innocent little toot when, well…
I was too far from my house to turn back without being late, so I decided to pull into a McDonalds to survey the situation. I flew past a group of ketchup-stained screaming kids and bolted into the bathroom. I must say, it really wasn’t as bad as it could have been. Under normal circumstances and with the right tools, my underwear could have been very easily salvaged. But I knew my measly half-empty purse-sized pack of wet wipes wouldn’t do the trick to last an entire day of skiing.
Really, I had many options:
I could have faked sick, cancelled and went home. But then my new friends might think I’m flaky! Oh no!
I could have asked one of my female friends going skiing to somehow help me out. But I felt it was too early in the friendship to assume I wouldn’t be ridiculed and cast away for such a mishap.
I could have let them know I’d be late, drive home to get a new pair and drive back. But then I’d be mildly inconveniencing them and they might not want to be my friend anymore! Oh no!
I couldn’t have gone to a store and bought a new pair, because, of course, it was early on a Sunday morning, so no stores were open yet.
Having weighed my options, I decided to do what would be best for everyone involved.
I skied commando.
And with that lovely image, on this, my two-year blogiversary, have a nice summer, folks!