3., 2., 1. Literally any time you’re at someone else’s house.
Like every time. Why do you even leave the house, let alone for a dinner party. You know how you get. How’s that plate of cheese sitting now? Not well.
You’re looking at your phone trying to figure out how long before you can jump in your car and drive home to your own bathroom.
This is a very private matter that needs a very private space.
Are you sweating? Jesus you’re sweating. People are going to notice. You’d notice. You’d be like “that person is about to crap themselves.”
Ok, focus. You can just leave. Wait. No. You didn’t drive. Why didn’t you drive. You always drive. Oh god.
Ok, Ok. Keep calm. You can use the bathroom. It’s a bathroom, it’s made for this. People will understand.
You ask the host where the bathroom is and they gesture towards a door that is literally three feet away.
Two people are standing in front of the door just chatting. Who chats by a bathroom?
Ok this is not happening. I’d rather go in the woods. Am I really thinking about crapping in the woods? What has my life become?
You decide you have no choice but to give your partner the nod. The little head bob that let’s them know it’s time to get going. They look confused, as if to say “What? We just got here.” You nod again, but this time you open your eyes little wider. They get it.
But now they have to say goodbye to people. Why do they always have to say goodbye. People are asking questions. It’s turning into a whole thing now.
You walk outside and everyone thinks you’re mad, but you’re not mad, you just have to poop.
The ride home is a quiet one. You’re rocking back and forth though just to make sure they know the situation is imminent.
You get home and run into the upstairs bathroom only to find… it was mostly just gas.
Damn. You probably could’ve just let that slide. But the important thing now is that you’re home. You hate being other places and home is where the heart is.
The heart and your own bathroom.