Many of you probably know at least one person who is absolutely terrified of going to the bathroom in public. Some are merely frightened of publicly relieving themselves when they have to go number two—yes I am using the term you learn in kindergarten to avoid saying the word ""poop"" 30 times in one article. Others cannot even go number one in a public bathroom without freezing up the second someone else walks in.
Now, I have to admit, I was once one of them myself. I used all of the famous tricks to avoid being overheard performing a completely normal bodily function. My favorite strategy was running the faucet full blast, even in the comfort of my own home, if my dad or brother was nearby.
However, I quickly got over this ridiculous phobia in the eighth grade when I realized one fine afternoon that I had two options: Calmly finish the business I had already started, even though my precious water had been turned off by some pretentious asshole, or stop and inevitably end up shitting my pants in front of my then unrequited love, Michael Roy. Naturally, I opted for the first choice and have been phobia-free for six years now.
Nevertheless, not everyone seems to be as lucky as me. Many still suffer from their irrational anxiety day in and day out and resort to the long-standing maneuvers that attempt (unsuccessfully) to deceive their neighboring bathroom buddy that they are a part of a newly evolved species that does not defecate (notice I'm avoiding using the p-word—there is a surplus of synonyms I will take advantage of before succumbing).
Classic maneuvers are flushing the toilet every time they think something might escape from their tightened control, running the faucets, ruffling the toilet paper and/or ripping off an exorbitant amount, and fake coughing that sounds more like Karen's cough in ""Mean Girls"" than any nasty virus on the streets of Madison.
I found a classic example of this widespread malady in the behavior of a fellow dorm mate last year (no names will be mentioned, but girls who were on my floor may know to whom I am referring). This anonymous dorm mate would sit for literally HOURS in the girl's restroom waiting for an opportune moment to release her day's waste. Everyone knew exactly who it was because she would wear the same flip-flops and usually disappeared and reappeared around the same time every night. At first, me being the bitch I am, thought this was hilarious and would purposely stay in the bathroom for a ridiculously long time just to torture her. After about a month, though, I began to feel horrible for the poor soul who wasted hours on a cold, disease-ridden toilet seat just waiting for her chance to feel some kind of deliverance from her stage fright.
Thus, I resolved to make her overcome her fear once and for all. How, you ask? Simple. I just needed to load up on Fiber One bars and apples, discreetly go to the bathroom at exactly the same time as her and let it rip so that she would realize there was no need to be frightened—everyone poops (I gave in). Sadly, my efforts failed. All that resulted was that her small little toes recoiled from her flip-flops and she continued to put herself through agonizing hours of holding her natural bodily responses for the rest of the year. The only possible change was that she may have thought I was incredibly vulgar and repulsive.
To this day I have dear friends I have known since we wore hot pink spandex and vampire capes on the streets of Grafton, Wis. who still cannot go number two in front of me, let alone anyone else. My best friend on dance team in high school would hold it for three hours while we practiced leaps, kicks, turns and routines, etc; can you imagine performing such tricks when your bowels are about to explode? I certainly can't. That is why I have the utmost respect for those of you who can comfortably drop a deuce in public and walk out smiling as if nothing happened. To me that is true gumption, which is why I am seriously contemplating slipping laxatives into the drinks of those of my friends afflicted with this pervasive stage fright to really show them what's up.
On the other hand, maybe I shouldn't be quick to pass judgment, considering I have never and will never bring myself to sit bare assed on a public toilet seat of any kind. No matter how clean it looks, I just can't do it. Health class did nothing to deter my fear of contracting some STI from a toilet seat, especially after we were forced to view life-altering pictures of them. Twice.
In fact, last year after returning home to the esteemed Sellery Hall belligerently drunk, I accidently sat my poor, bare buttocks on a festering toilet seat and was convinced for weeks that I would wake up one morning with warts covering my rump. Irrational? Maybe. I guess we all have our own little unshakable phobias after all.
