2 Legit 2 Shit
by Marc
Monday — It all started on Sunday. For reasons I can’t go into here, I’d broken my usual mostly-vegan, straightedge-by-default thing and in 24 hrs consumed four bottles of Guinness, some Cool Ranch Doritos, buttery toast, two slices of pizza (one pepperoni), and one of those sherbet-laden Jamba Juice concoctions. Plus, I was coming down w/ the flu. I stuffed myself, ignoring the fever and aching kidneys. So after a night of cold sweat and cramps, at work the next day, I assumed a gastrointestinal struggle was underway and attempted to cleanse my system. I took advantage of having no appetite and fasted thru lunch. I drank like 20 cups of water. That night the bloated feeling shifted slightly and hinted at a bowel movement. I ate greasy, spicy Thai food then rushed home to my bathroom. After ten minutes of struggle, I finally squeezed out a lump that exited at such a high velocity and made such a loud plop and so stretched my rectum that I was sure it was massive. But then I peered between my legs and saw it was no bigger than an apricot pit. And that was all I had.
Tuesday — For breakfast I had a grapefruit and a bran muffin. This may sound like a semi-drastic effort to get things moving, but really all I decided was to resume my normal diet, which includes a lot of fiber. (I have to most magnificent, flaky, efficient movements, really, once a day, at least. I’m spoiled. . . . All the more reason this inactivity was so distressing.) I drank lotsa fluid — water, green tea. I ate a well-rounded lunch and dinner. Nothing happened. I felt more full than I ever have, but I was aware already that, in my colon, the unfamiliar mass of fecal matter had hardened. Maybe it was still possible to force it out, but my raw veggies and whole grains and normally loose stool apparently lacked the muscle.
Wednesday — More of the same — trying to act like nothing was wrong. But I was so bloated that I couldn’t eat much. At work, I spent 20 minutes in a stall, pushing to the point of lightheadedness, but I produced no more crap than I had Monday. The only difference was that this was all stringy. The color didn’t look good, either. I went back to my cubicle and spent the rest of the afternoon searching the Web, using the keywords “laxative” and “explosive”.
Thursday — I woke up thinking, “It has to come today. I’ve never gone this long before. No one’s ever gone this long before. There’s not that much tubing in me.” I forwent shaving and showering and took my constipation on in the comfort of my own bathroom. For 30 minutes, I braced myself against various objects and contorted my legs into positions that I thought had to be conducive to shitting, just because they were so humiliating. I hugged the bottom of the bowl. I prayed, mostly because the struggle was so painful. Days’ worth of bulk collided with intestinal cement while I whimpered. There was no progress, and after it was all over, I was so relieved when the abdominal pains subsided that being blocked up didn’t seem so bad. This was also the day that the searing flatulence began. I was overwhelming people on the street even, clearing bus shelters on a windy day.
Friday — I walked into Walgreens proudly, decisively. I’d decided to give myself until that evening, of course, to let the situation fix itself, but I didn’t worry about it all day. If I was still obstructed at 7 PM, I was purchasing something. I would take care of it before eating another big meal and worrying where it would end up. Today would be the day of my 1st enema. So I swaggered as much as one can in such a situation to the appropriate aisle. But then, I admit, I lost some resolve. I picked up a generic enema, hefted it, and put it back on the shelf. I started looking at the laxatives, reading boxes. I’d taken this route once before, and it had seemed effective enough. But none of them sold me. They all contained animals products — gelatin capsules, milk chocolate. Eating hadn’t gotten me anywhere all week, and I blamed straying from my dietary regimen for the whole mess, anyway. The quickest any of them promised results was overnight, whereas the enema seemed very . . . immediate. Plus, the cheapest laxative I found was five bucks. Enemas: one dollar. I put down the powdery, herbal, gentle stuff I was eyeing and grabbed an enema. Two blocks and one disinterested cashier (I was, perhaps, a little too proud of myself) later, I was in my bathroom, with a towel spread on the floor, in my shorts, consulting the directions. Illustrations of a digit-less man showed two positions one could assume to administer the device. You can either lie very comfortably on your left side, with one leg bent slightly and an arm nestled under the head, as if you might just drift off for the 2-5 minutes it takes for the sodium-based laxative to take effect. Or you can get on both knees and put the left side of your face on the floor and leave yourself quite exposed and reach around very awkwardly to make the . . . transaction. Well, of course, I 1st tried lying on my side. But after removing the orange protective cap from the well-lubricated nozzle and attempting to navigate blindly, I made a discovery. The two positions shown aren’t necessarily equally viable alternatives. Rather, if you’ve never had an enema before, your ass is going in the air. Anyway, with a little wiggling and marveling at my dexterity, I finally filled myself from that end for the 1st time ever. And after holding that second position — yes, apparently, you can’t move at all — my weeklong struggle was flushed away — immediately. So I guess my point in writing this is to urge you, the reader, not to wait as long as I did. Let my words inspire you. Enemas really aren’t that bad. I don’t exactly think I’ll make this my regular Friday night thing, but we can learn from all of life’s experiences, as long as we’re . . . receptive to the lesson taught.
The End?
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