Girls Talk About Poop

There’s a pretty common misconception perpetuated by the media (and strict denial, I’m sure) wherein – for some reason beyond my comprehension – men think that women don’t poop.

How this came to be, I’m not sure. Probably something to do with femininity and delicacy and patriarchies and yadda yadda. While 99.9 percent of the male population ­no doubt has figured out by now that women are no stranger to dropping the kids off at the pool after a long work day (sometimes during), there’s something they likely aren’t aware of :

We talk about poop. Frequently.

50 Shades of Brown
There are probably some women reading this, thinking, “Well not me, crazy lady. I am a woman and I do not waste my time talking about such disgusting things.”

If that’s you, you can calm down because 1) you’re lying, 2) it’s not disgusting. It’s poop. Poop is funny and if you disagree, spend five minutes with a second grader. It’s also natural. If you don’t poop, you die, and death is not funny, it’s depressing.

If anything, poop is one thing that can tie us all together as a human race.

OK maybe that’s taking it a step too far. But I’m being real here – we enjoy talking about poop just as much as the boys, whether we’re chatting with lads or lasses.

The Shits Shrouded in Secrecy
For those who don’t spend a great deal of time in the ladies’ room, you may not be aware of what takes place when another woman is putting a package in the porcelan throne. There’s an unspoken code among girls in community bathrooms – if you are taking a poop, you stay absolutely still and silent until the bathroom has completely cleared. If you’re walking in on a pooper, you do your business as fast as possible, then you leave and never speak of it again.

You would not believe the lengths some women go to hide their poops from the world.

For example, one of my good friends recently visited a male companion. Prior to her departure, we talked over a glass of wine how she could secretly do the doodoo without him finding out.

Let me clarify – we don’t care that you know that we poop, we just don’t want you to hear it, see it, or smell it. Make sense?

Getting Paid to Poop
Like most stories any humans share, the best poop stories are just that – stories that stand out from the throng of normal deuces we’re droppin’ on the daily.

Naturally, some of the top ones come from my office. One of my dear, dear co-workers who I would probably trust with my first born child frequently regales me with tales of her turds.

Sometimes, she even texts me from the can – which I find hilarious.

The best is when she finds herself doodooing in the dark.

Our office bathrooms have motion-sensor lights, which means after a set amount of time, they turn off if no one has moved in the room. My friend, who I’ll call Booyajah, will start to do her business, then be left in the dark and forced to 1) finish with no light, or 2) wave her arms madly until they turn back on. I believe she leans toward 1 most days, but if that ever happens to me, you can bet I’ll be doing number 2. (Get it?)

My Favorite Poop Story
As I stated earlier, we enjoy talking about the poops, but we pride ourselves on secrecy when it comes to completing the task in public.

When I was in college, I lived with my best friend (who was accustomed to hearing my subtle yet healthy bowel movements) and borderline lived with another dear friend, who I had a crush on at that moment in time.

That particular day, I was feeling very queasy. I was sure I had come down with a stomach illness that was soon to manifest by way of my lower intestine, so I knew I needed to remedy the situation immediately. I contemplated going to Wendy’s – as pooping in front of strangers was favorable to pooping in front of my crush – but instead decided to mask the whole endeavor by taking a shower.

I turned on the water, had my way with the toilet, and truly thought I was home free. I could hear my friends talking in the living room and right before I flushed, a very large – and loud – bout of gas escaped. We’re talking comedic, fart-gun level here.

Once the subdued foghorn was done, I knew the damage had been done. I heard the laughing from the other room and briefly contemplated jumping through the second floor window. As I took my shower, I thought about all the excuses I could tell to mask the sound.

“Guys, I was practicing my fart noises that I made with my mouth and not my butt – was it convincing?”

“I left the window open and this large, ornery bird flew into the bathroom, farted, then flew away. He was kind of an asshole.”

“Hey guys, I’m having stomach issues. We’re all humans, please stop laughing and let’s move on, OK?”

As you can imagine, I said none of those. I emerged from my bathroom of shame and greeted my laughing comrades with:

“You’re not going to believe this, but for the first time in my entire life, I just pooped.”

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