The Dirt Field

When my best friend Caitlin and I were employed at the same company last summer, she and I were Work Poop Buddies. You can wrinkle your nose or laugh derisively at my immaturity, but you know exactly what I’m talking about – whenever Caitlin or I would have to use the restroom, we would go together. We did this because it created the perfect plausible deniability: if someone else walked in while we were in there together, they would immediately assume that we were not pooping. And why? Because nobody actually poops with another person around. That would be invasive and disgusting.

If you think I sound crazy, you’re probably a male. Men leap up from their desks, grunt and adjust themselves, grab a newspaper, and shuffle off to the men’s room. Then they spend ten to fifteen minutes comfortably relieving themselves, regardless of who comes and goes from the bathroom during that time period. When they are done, they refold their newspaper and proudly return to their desks. If this sounds like you, then I can understand why you are confused by all the thinking that goes into taking a poop at work when you’re a woman.

Women have it differently, though. We wear heels and nylons and pencil skirts to the office, all of which are not conducive to discarding a stinker in the middle of the day. We also prefer to maintain a graceful air that snobbishly sneers, “Pooping is something other people do.” Other people being lepers, of course.

Because we are so concerned about appearances and not being seen as gross or dirty, us ladies go to great lengths to avoid ever having to be caught pooping at work. There is nothing more mortifying than running into a coworker in the doorway of the bathroom as you are leaving the site of a nuclear wasteland. Well, except perhaps being interrupted in the process of dropping the actual bomb, but most women caught in that position like to play a little game called I Know You Can See My Feet Under The Stall, But I Am Not Actually Here And Will Remain Silent And Hidden Until You Leave. Pity the woman who wore distinctive, colorful shoes that day.

I am not so naive as to think that this neurosis is completely shared amongst the female population. Most women can at least pee in the presence of other women without feeling nervous or unable to perform. I, on the other hand, will make several consecutive trips to the ladies’ room simply to pee, only because each time I try, there is another person already in there. Before you laugh or mock me, realize that I no longer have any control over this. I’ve been psychotic about this for so long that even if the urine was actually seeping out of my belly button in desperation, I’d still be hovering over the bowl, sweating profusely as I tried to squeeze out a drop while praying that the other woman exits the room.

But I know that, my ridiculous performance anxiety aside, the majority of women share the same concerns about pooping at work. This is why the Work Poop Buddy system was created – two women who are close friends go to the bathroom together and one or both of them poop. If someone else comes in at any point, that person instantly assumes that the current occupants are not pooping and that any foul odors were from a previous visitor, because CLEARLY two women would not be pooping together. There’s a better chance that they’re in there milking goats.

The problem lies in the fact that Caitlin and I no longer work together, and I am forced to poop alone. More often than not, things go smoothly. I wait until my coworkers seem settled in their offices and then I dash down the hallway, do my business, and scurry back to my desk. No harm, no foul.

But then there are days like today.

Around eleven o’clock, I decided it was that time. Wanting to buy myself a few extra minutes of being out of the office without arousing suspicion, I told my coworkers that I was stepping out to go to 7-Eleven. I grabbed my purse, scampered off to the bathroom, and did my thing. I knew I had a bit more time than usual, so let’s just suffice to say I wasn’t rushing. Just as I exited the stall, however, one of my coworkers walked in. SHE WALKED IN AND SAW ME, THE PERSON WHO HAD LEFT THE OFFICE OVER FIVE MINUTES AGO, THE ONLY PERSON AROUND TO ACCOUNT FOR THE POOP SMELL.

My heart stopped. I needed an excuse, so I said the first stupid thing that came to mind. “My zipper,” I stammered, “is broken! It got stuck and I couldn’t get it back up and it took forever to fix!” She had no choice but to take an active interest in my zipper, so I began a lengthy demonstration of how it was broken and how I finally managed to fix it, all while we stared closely at my crotch. When I was done babbling senselessly and had managed to tear our attention away from my pants, I finally ran out of the bathroom.

At which point I crashed directly into my other coworker, who exclaimed, “It’s like a party in the bathroom!” Yes, it’s a party. A party where we all bask in my poop fumes. And everyone is invited.

Caitlin, we need to get you a job at my company.