I Love Poop

HAH! I feel funny writing that title where people will actually see it. Sure, I say it all the time with my friends but telling the world (ok, the small population of loyal blog readers) seems odd. It's like spilling a deep and dark secret. I love poop, I love to poop, I love to poop in public, I feel like poop (not now, but sometimes), do you have to poop? You name it, any sentence with "Poop" in it is the sentence for me.
But what happens when poop becomes a terrible word? Or a terrible thing. I am speaking the big portion of you "non-public" poopers. I wish that I could even begin to feel some empathy or scrap of understanding for what you go through, but I just can't imagine a world without pooping in public. I think that it is almost as liberating as running naked through the woods (or anywhere for that matter). And for those humorists out there, I have to tell you that nothing is funnier than knowing that the person who just went into the bathroom after you is going to have to do their business smelling your insides.... and the fact that they will be embarrassed about it, even though they had nothing to do with it. Ahhhhhhhh... the joys of simple humor.
Ok, so two days ago I am out with my poop-phobic boyfriend. We are wandering aimlessly through a large and common bookstore looking at books and listening to music. I mention to him that I must make poop and he says he does too. We are standing right next to the restrooms. I look at him and tell him "there is nothing like the present to get over this phobia" he just shakes his head as he watches me skip, skip, skip to the loo.
I come out of the bathroom feeling refreshed and can see by the look on his face that if we don't get out of there soon, he won't be feeling even remotely fresh. Unfortunately he has decided to buy out the music section on what seems to be the busiest night of the year. As we walk down the stairs, hand in hand, I can feel a little limp in his step by the way his hand pulls awkwardly at my arm. I can hear him grunt as we walk by the cafe, and a little yelp as we pass by the center isle of books. I can see the pain in his eyes and I laugh, on my god, do I laugh!!! I try hard not to, but man, I just can't help it. This pain, this agony, this embarassment, could all be rectified (ha) with one small jaunt to the men's restroom, not 6 steps away. But he remains stubborn. He clings as tightly to this phobia as he does to his bowels.
He asks me what I am doing, why I am laughing and looking around at everything in sight. I tell him, "I want to remember you exactly as you are, in this place, having to poop so badly, but having to wait because you are terrified to public pooping. I want to remember this moment, exactly as it is, so that when I tell the world, they will understand."