Situation

So, remember how I once wrote about collecting a stool sample when I was in the midst of getting diagnosed with some health stuff? (Update: since then, I have been unable to enjoy fries.) That whole post came back to me in frightening detail this weekend.

Because we went camping.

Which, you see, only brings this to mind because high on the list of Things I Will Not Do is poop in the woods. Also on that list is Work With Only Women, Wear Capris and Eat at a Restaurant That Has Pictures of Their Food on the Menu. Take note, please. The list is laminated, ergo, non-negotiable.

Camping means several things. It means seeing things that no one else gets to, not bathing, waking up with the sun and having breakfast while looking out over 12k peaks, and dodgy bathroom conditions. Generally, I'd rather go behind a bush given the state of most national park toilets, the conditions of which are better left undisclosed. And this is fine. Pee'ing poses few problems, the largest one being the inadvertent exposure of your backside to complete strangers. But at that point, you most likely haven't bathed for a day or two and so mooning someone who wouldn't recognize you in polite society doesn't really leave an emotional scar.

However, if you have more pressing business to attend to, the kind that you would prefer a stall OR four walls and an advanced kind of ventilation system for, then nature is a cruel bitch. Not only will you not EVER find sufficient cover, but one must also come prepared with a trowel and toilet paper to bury not only whatever you leave behind but a good portion of your dignity as well. As I discovered from my fry tray incident, there is never a good time to deal with ones own poop. It just serves as a very unpleasant and pungent reminder that no matter what state of life you're in, you can't get away from your own shit.

But back to camping, my rear has always cooperated with me and stopped all evacuation type business when we go away on these weekends where I may not be able to find a toilet. It knows that I would rather deal with bloat and minor discomfort. However, with my new medications and eating habits, I've been introduced to a new routine of startling regularity. I am the envy of all men. So while I was hoping for the familiar shut-down upon our arrival at Yosemite this weekend, my innards had different plans.

Day one was fine, as we were conveniently positioned near bathroom stalls whenever the need arose, but on day two, we found ourselves deep in the woods at a new climbing area which, sadly, did not include facilities. Why the park services did not anticipate my needs and haul a port-o-let miles into the back country is beyond me. I should write my senator about that.

I didn't think this would be a problem, given I had taken care of things hours before. Either my body was on a roll or I had consumed too much fiber that morning but familiar rumblings started some hours into the afternoon when we were no where near either a. leaving or b. spontaneously coming across a bathroom with sufficient amenities. So I had stern speaks with my intestines who were just going to have to PIPE DOWN since I was not going to hike off, dig a hole and make a deposit. It's on the LAMINATED LIST OF THINGS THAT SHALL NOT HAPPEN. Everything calmed down for a while and the afternoon went on with only an occasional protest from down below.

Everyone was nearly done climbing for the day when my stomach kicked into high gear, apparently having had enough of waiting. I realized that I was not going to be able to put off the inevitable for much longer and prayed to the Baby Jesus that people would be quick to pack up as we had a half hour march back to the car and excessive movement was only prompting my body to take care of things. Marc wondered why I sprinted down the hill, leaving our group behind as I made my way quickly to the car. I didn't want to announce the reason, hoping that he would just gather my situation via osmosis since he's aware of my newly found bathroom prowess.

We made it to the car and I said goodbye to our friends hastily, my mind on other things. I turned to Marc and said, "We need to go back to The Store NOW." The Store being a place that has a small restaurant, a gear shop and BATHROOMS and was also several miles in the opposite direction of where were headed. Marc, still not fathoming the gravity of the situation looked at me and said, "But wouldn't you rather get a head start and make our way out of the park?" I stifled the urge to kick him in the shins and whisper shouted, "IT'S NOT A REQUEST WE NEED TO GO NOW," at which, I think, he got the point. He even kindly sped through the Meadows which is not recommended given the very enthusiastic police who will pull you over at the slightest provocation.

With deliverance close at hand, I unbuttoned my pants as I ran across the parking lot to the ladies room, body-checking a small child who I thought might get there ahead of me. I was in no mood to wait. I met Marc back at the car, the relief registering on my face in a contented smile. "Seriously?" he said, "You couldn't just go in the woods back at the climbing area?" "You know my rule," I replied, settling in happily and looking for some celebratory music on the iPod.

He just shook his head and started the drive back home wondering, I'm sure, how I consider myself any kind of outdoors-woman without being able to take care of this most simple of tasks. But you see, I HAVE done it once before and almost didn't live through the episode, the horror being too much to ever recall or document...and then there was the incident of the fry tray. So really, it's not for lack of experience that I don't want to have to deal with my own shit in such an intimate way. You have to draw the line somewhere.