My daughter called me and said she was with two of her friends and they all wanted to know what I did with my big D.
How can I really explain that? I’m not proud of what I did. I just want to forget the whole thing. But they are at a party right this minute having assorted big D conversations. They are telling each other their worst experiences surrounding bodily functions. They are making light of a totally horrific experience, one in which I was first desperate, then traumatized, horrified, disoriented and finally embarrassed beyond any other event. I may be psychologically scared for life.
[I mean, I had to literally sprint down three flights of stairs in my flip flops, make a split second decision at the bottom, book it to the nearest ‘safe’ place, stoop on ice cold grass, all the while looking this way and that, and trying to not create a laundry problem, which I might add, did not happen. Oh yes, I’m here to tell you I definitely used the pre-spray and the longer soak cycle.]
And I’m so ashamed.
And yet I could hear their laughter peeling in the background during our phone conversation.
I’m crushed by their levity, their joviality.
Nonetheless, I must somehow go on.
It’s not as though I had a little scoop with me at the time. I know, I know. Perhaps it’s something I should invest in given my age, lack of the sphincter and my total lack of character in any given situation.
My only peace in this situation originates with the knowledge that it has undoubtedly begun its natural return to nature and is no longer an issue in the bigger picture.
It’s my hope this will never be mentioned again from mocking lips so we can all begin the healing process.
[tongue firmly planted.]
And yes, Amy, I’m only kidding. Silly goose!