My Worst Fear

You ever been completely petrified of something happening, it being your worst fear, and then that fear actually come true when you least expect it?

I have.
And I survived to tell the tale.
My worst fear happened, involving this toilet:

It looks so innocent… it is not.

It all started with Mr. Speedy and I completing a 15 mile tempo run. I ran well, keeping a consistently chipper 7:30 min./mile pace and only slightly caking my legs, butt, and shoes in mud. I ran next to a man who wore a baseball cap backwards since Mr. Speedy was keeping his super speed pace and about 15 minutes ahead of me.

Once completed, I realized two things:

First- our shoes needed a bath:

And second- running long distances causes my insides to squeeze and push and explode which then in turn causes me to use the bathroom about 67 times in a row.

This is also known as super-pooping and makes me feel like a super hero of demolishing bathrooms.

While suffering from this post-run-bowel-movement-anxiety disease, I had a strong case of it suddenly creep up on me while assisting my lovely boyfriend move into a new house with his friend. His friend (the proud home owner) just purchased the home and got down to renovations immediately. It looks like a tornado hit it from in the inside:

This is the kitchen. I really like the backsplash. And paint on the walls. It is peaceful.

Having to use the bathroom and complete my #2 mission, I only slightly freaked out thinking that perhaps the bathroom didn’t work? Or perhaps the water is not on? Or perhaps only men can use the bathroom during renovations and I will be forced to go outside like a crouching squirrel?

“May I use the bathroom?” I asked Mr. Speedy and his friend.

“Oh, yeah! Go right ahead!” They both assured me, then went back deep into conversation about crowd molding, pipe cleaners, and jack rabbits. Or jack hammers. I am not sure.

Yes! I can use the bathroom! Feeling like I just found out it was Christmas, I rushed to the bathroom, did my business like a boss, and then flushed the handle.

Nothing.

I attempted to flush it again.

NOTHING.

I pushed the handle down more firmly, thinking maybe I missed the whole movement with terrible hand aim.

NOT. A. THING.

I stared at it firmly, letting my eyes turn to slits from pure disbelieve.

BIG. FAT. NOTHING.

Frantically, I closed the lid, stepped onto it, and in a squatting position juggled and pushed the handle in every which way possible.

NOTHING. NOTHING. NOTHING.

Sitting on the lid, I began to completely freak out: This is my worst fear… breaking a toilet from my bodily deposits. Mr. Speedy is out there! His friend is out there! And I’m here, wrecking the toilet because I ate too many eggs after that run and refuse to hold #2 potty sessions… I am gross. Basically, a Jabba the Hut girlfriend. What will they think? Perhaps I should hide in the tub…. no, too obvious. OMGAH I WANT TO DIE NOW. I hate toilets. And world hunger. And my baby toe. The end.

“Hunny?” Mr. Speedy asks, calling me from outside.

“Oh, hi. Yes. Almost done,” I responded.

Shoot, I have been far too long. I checked my watch- it has been 11 minutes. I had no choice but to pull up my big-girl panties, face the men, and own up to my ability to break the toilet like an over-stuffed Sumo wrestler.

Immediately upon exiting, I told the boys what happened. They both, after a few chuckles, reacted with pure compassion and chivalry that you would have thought this type of thing happened all the time.

Turns out, the water was turned off.
They both KNEW this but FORGOT to tell me.
Mr. Speedy’s friend assured me he would take care of it and not to worry.

By golly, I hope he does not FORGET to take care of it.

I just might never recover from this. Or go to the bathroom at his house. EVER.

Bye forever.
Love,
The Survivor