Dear Lady in line for Winslow’s Home public restroom:
Hangover delay struck me at the worst time. Words cannot adequately express how grateful I am you let me cut in front of you to use the toilet during Saturday’s lunch rush. I was suffering from a hangover, but I thought it was safe to go outside. I’m certain you could hear the pain in my voice and couldn’t help notice me dancing around like someone shot my ass with a hand buzzer. You seriously saved me. Likewise, you saved yourself from a near-death explosion. However, I do humbly apologize for what I did to you next.
What you could not know was how I spent the previous 12 hours to get to this humiliating place. Let me admit I was over-served at the costume party we attended the night before. I spent the better part of the night dancing with George Valentin from The Artist, somewhat to my husband’s chagrin. After all, the Halloween party theme was Silent Movies. Never occurred to me to remove my make-up before retiring. Thankfully, I managed to peel off my Josephine Baker-inspired banana skirt costume before diving head-first into bed. Stop judging me! Party-goers copped feels of my bananas all night, so the bartending area was my safe space. The bartender’s price for protection was tips on a six drink minimum . I didn’t want to squander the drink part of the transaction.
I woke up early in an unbelievably decent state considering what I drank the night before. “Wow. I don’t feel that bad. I didn’t drink as much as I thought!”
in my meager defense
No, you did. You just got a time-released hangover which doesn’t start until you’ve been awake three hours. Like an al-qaeda sleeper cell that hides low until the time of attack. A mate met me at Dewey’s, a local pizzeria, as early as we could plausibly claim we were there for lunch. We devoured a huge pizza. The waitperson refilled our tumblers of Diet Coke four times. Feeling fortified, I decided to run some errands by myself.
DELAYED HANGOVER: it’s not just for breakfast
Fifteen minutes from home, it hit me while I was driving. Hangover checkmate. Caffeine-fueled colon cramps. The driver at the stoplight watched my squirming with curiosity. The cramps came in waves, like labor. I thought I might give birth right in the bucket seat. This was not going to be a benign shart experience. I was on the verge of blowing an entire pizza and a liter of cola out of my ass, and there was nothing I could do about it. All I could think about was how I’d stupidly done this to myself. No faking a stomach virus. Obama wasn’t a thing then, so I couldn’t blame him. Indeed, COVID-19 was years away, so I couldn’t blame a Pandemic.
I over-imbibed and I was about to pay the ultimate price. This was no ordinary hangover. Accordingly, I was going to defecate all over the interior of my car. What would I say to police if they pulled me over for lane swerving? I debated different scenarios in my head. If they stopped me for speeding after I pooped myself, I’d say my colostomy bag exploded. If they pulled me over before the shitting, well, I hadn’t worked that out yet. The physical discomfortable and impending delivery of a crap grenade clouded my analytical thinking.
better methods to clean out your system
A flashback of another near miss shitting event in Target popped into my head. It had nothing to do with a hangover. Preparing for my first colonoscopy, I ingested magnesium citrate to cleanse my colon. Since I’d emptied the pipes four times in my home toilet, I thought I was done. At the time, I was humiliated to shit my brains out as moms with toddlers went in and out of the public restroom.
It’s one thing to be stuck in a Box Store restroom stall for 20 minutes. In contrast, being trapped in your car unable to breathe for fear of blowing crap all over the seat of your SUV, is another. Consequently, I was in a serious panic. For context, have you changed soiled diapers? Anyone around babies long enough eventually discovers a tsunami shit. I’m talking about opening their diaper to discover poop smeared all the way up their back to their hairline. That’s the most serious shit there is. This was going to be one of those moments.
will this hangover win or will i?
Knowing I would not make it to my house, I pulled into Winslow’s Home, a quaint, popular place to eat quiche or buy a gardening tool. I rushed past UGG-booted families and men in sweaters to the back of the store. Dismissed thoughts of what to do if I shit down my leg in the hallway. They had one restroom and one lady waiting to use it. Our eyes locked and I asked if I could cut in line. She graciously waved me forward. Lady in the restroom line, I’m so sorry no good deed goes unpunished. I know what the room smelled like after my ass erupted. You didn’t deserve that stench after your kindness. In closing, I relish the small things in life, like not actually shitting myself.
P.S. I humbly apologize, Winslow’s Home. This endorsement likely isn’t what you hoped for, but I love your establishment. One tip, however, please stock the loo with deodorizing spray.