It's a natural part of life. Everyone does it.

Yesterday at work I had to go to the bathroom. Like, go to the bathroom. As in not number one, but the other number. So, I went. It wasn't the first time I had to, you know, while at work. I did what I had to do, quickly mind you, and flushed. While washing my hands and making sure there wasn't anything stuck between my teeth, I noticed the toilet water was rising. . .not draining. For a girl who hates to even say the 'p' word and despises, ahem, 'fart humor' (an oxymoron if you ask me), I became frantic. Everyone at work was going to know that I. . .POOPED! Unless of course I could switch to plumber mode- ASAP. I abandoned my hand washing and teeth primping duties, grabbed hold of the plunger and pretended I had my ass crack hanging out of stone washed Levis instead of being hid underneath the adorable purple dress I was wearing. The plunger splashed into the polluted currents, but failed to make the, uh, soiled, water dissipate. My efforts as a drain doctor failed. I was sweating profusely, not from my forceful plunges, but from embarrassment and worry. I could feel my face turning bright red.

In this moment of ire, I remembered my dad hunched over the toilet. Not like that. He was my dad fixing an unclogged toilet. I must have been 8 years old. We were still living in Connecticut where my siblings and I shared an entire floor to ourselves. The bathroom we shared holds many memories, including the unlicensed cosmetology school my brother and I started where our younger sister was our first and last hair cut victim. However, the day my dad fixed the clogged toilet is insignificant in every way possible except that he took the top off and fiddled with some fixtures inside. As I leaned against the sink, not really paying attention to his method, I waited for my turn on the can. He fixed it and I enjoyed many more moments on that fine flusher.

Taking the very little that I learned that day in Connecticut, I frantically tore off the top of the toilet seat and looked dumbfounded at the two fixtures sticking up at me. I lifted and pressed and simultaneously tried to plunge. I was moist from sweat and the splashing of dirty waters. It was futile. Whoever used the toilet next was going to get an awful surprise. It only looked bad because my attempts to plunge and flush pulverized and pressed my. . .droppings. Combined with water and toilet paper. . .well. . .gag.

After putting the top back on the tank and covering the toilet with an empty box signifying "Caution Hazardous Waste" I made a rueful walk to the manager's office to notify her of the faulty toilet. Fortunately there were three people to embarrass myself in front of, Christine my store manager, Crystal my fun loving and favorite manager and Lucky, my intimidating peer who works in the receiving office who by the expressions on her face doesn't seem to have much luck concerning anything. But alas- who doesn't like an audience when the discussion of bowel movements are involved?

I cowered in the corner while waiting for the three to finish their discussion.

"Uh, so, the toilet, is clogged," I mumbled with a nervous smile.
"Yeah I know it hasn't been working lately," Christine said unaffected.
"How do you know?" asked Crystal.
"I went to flush and it just didn't" I answered eliminating any details.
"You go number two?" Crystal joked.
"Actually. . ." I said between pursed lips.
Lucky, who had her back to us the entire time, burst out laughing.
"Oh my god, I can't believe you just admitted you clogged the toilet with your shit. . .That's awesome!"
Christine was in hysterics and Crystal was shaking her head with a smile. I felt like a 6 year old among a crowd of adults laughing at a joke I didn't get. Pretend you get it, pretend!
"Whaaaaaaaaaaat? Soooorrry, I just didn't want to leave it for someone else, don't you think you should call a plumber?"
Their eyes were all tearing.
"Why didn't you just leave it?" Christine asked matter-of-factly.
"Ew!" the rest of replied. She shrugged with a grin and ended the discussion, "Well, can't do much about it, just put a sign on the door." I turned on my heels and sheepishly walked out still hearing their chuckles.
When I returned the bathroom, the box was still atop the seat. I removed it, Lysoled the scence of the crime, and flushed. Some water went down. I attempted a plunge. More water went down. I imagined it exploding back into my face after a few more successful plunges and flushes, but I was relieved, five minutes later, to clearly see the bottom of the toilet bowl.

As soon as it was cleaned I announced to all the other associates and my managers that the toilet was fixed. No one cared, in fact I don't think the managers even remembered that it was clogged considering they had a huge merchandise shipment to place. As a result, yesterday I learned that no one gives a shit about anyone else's shit. Like that bumpersticker: shit happens.

And for once, I'm comfortable with that.