How I Lost My Gym Membership, Lost Weight, and Gained a Bowel Problem - A saga in three parts - Part 3

Bowel Problem

There I was, running my little heart out.  I was like Forrest Gump, only female and probably not mentally challenged.  I discovered so many new things about my surroundings and about myself.  First, there's a dentist's office in town called "Bearable Dentistry."  Not that I can afford dental care, but if I was going to choose a local dentist, I probably wouldn't go to one that has christened itself with a description of how not horrifically painful its services are.  That's the biggest indication that they are probably lying.  If it was named "Delightful Dentistry" somehow I would be more at ease.  Nevertheless, I think they'd be better off with an honest moniker like "Look, We Know it's Going to Hurt and You'll Probably Bleed a Little, but What the Fuck Dentistry." 


Second, there is an eye care facility here called the "Ocularium."  What the HELL?  Were all the normal names already taken the day doctors' offices in this town were established?  My first thought was that 'ocularium' sounds way too much like Panopticon and there's no way you'd get me in there.  Nothing, and I mean nothing, freaks me out more than having people stare at me.  Then I thought, wait, is ocularium even a word?  So I looked it up, and found two disparate definitions, one of which just makes no sense (the visor of a helmet? really?), and one of which is gross:  http://www.amentsoc.org/insects/glossary/terms/ocularium  Have fun with that.

After I got tired of judging questionably-named establishments, I set my laser beams of condescension on the good townspeople.  Unfortunately, I have found that, by and large, people exercising in earnest give me no ammunition for mockery.  The one exception to this rule was this rangy, wiry old man rollerblading.  His legs and glutes were so taut, I wanted nothing more than to bounce a quarter off some inappropriate part of his anatomy.  However, my admiration of his physique didn't outweigh the two strikes against him:  Rollerblades, obviously.  And more importantly, trekking poles.  You're skating on a smooth, level, asphalt trail, guy.  You're not skiing, you're not climbing a mountain.  Get rid of those, because no.  Just no.

Having exhausted all outward forms of stimulation, I turned to my favorite topic - ME.  I started going on longer runs so I would have more time to bask in my own glory.  I started running all the way into Washington and back into Idaho, because that is Bad Ass.*  I had a couple good days of running where it just felt so GOOD.  And so right.


And then, without warning, it felt SO BAD.  OH, so bad, and wrong.  

The first morning of the Bad, I hopped out of bed, made the bed, arranged my creepy stuffed animals on the bed, used the bathroom, tri-folded the towels in the bathroom, and then made my way downstairs to make my breakfast.  But before I got into the kitchen, I probably made sure everything on the coffee table was situated at right angles, picked up the peanut shell crumbs Andy dropped the night before, put his shoes in the closet, and fluffed the couch pillows.  Because that's what you do when you diagnose yourself with moderate OCD.  You do all that before breakfast, but only when no one is watching because, let's be honest, it's kinda weird.**


And then I made my usual breakfast of two cups of coffee, orange juice, three vitamins,*** and a bowl of oatmeal with raisins, walnuts, and cinnamon, with just a splash of milk.  As I ate my breakfast, my morning ritual continued with a perusal of my strictly-ordered lineup of web comics, blogs, Facebook, email, and finally Perez Hilton.  Because I read Perez Hilton.  Deal with it.  Then I did the dishes.  Even though we have a drying rack, I dried them all and put them away, so they wouldn't stare at me like abandoned kittens left for the vultures in a box on the roadside.

Once I had cleaned and right-angled everything, it was time to get dressed for my run.  I brushed my teeth and probably plucked my eyebrows for 10 minutes or more, because there's always that one damn hair that you can see but can't grip and it drives you INSANE.  


After an absurd amount of time, I was ready to run.  It was sunny, I was feeling great, and best of all, I had a superstar, fiber-laden breakfast to fuel me.  I was about three quarters of the way to my turnaround point when I started to worry.  I felt that familiar stirring deep within me.  That kind of sensation you embrace when you're at home with a good book.  So good in one context, yet so very, very bad in this particular context.


For the first time since childhood, I was encountering the very real possibility that I was going to completely shit my pants.  I slowed to a trot, and then to a walk.  Panicked, I glanced around.  No bathroom in sight.  No cover, either.  Nothing but rolling wheat fields to my right, and to my left, a swampy ditch separating me from the road and shopping center on the opposite side.  I was desperate, but believe me, there was no crossing this ditch.


Then, a funny thing happened.  The walking seemed to make the intestinal throbbing subside.  Oh glorious day!  The tribulation had passed.  So I took off at a good jog once more and made it to my turnaround point feeling triumphant, when the horrible sensation returned.  I was centimeters away from utter disaster.  This time, walking helped, but only a little.  I knew that if I didn't get to a bathroom with great haste, I would never be able to feel human again.  A real Catch-22 this time.  Running seemed to increase the pressure in my colon, but would surely get me to a bathroom sooner.  Walking at least enabled me to clench my ass cheeks, but meant that I would likely never get to a bathroom in time.  The best compromise turned out to be a very awkward, anal-retentive power walk.  

By the time I got home, I was sweating more from this effort than from the initial run.  With shaking hands, I fumbled my key into the front door and staggered immediately to the bathroom, where I experienced the sweetest relief known to humankind.


The next few runs were uneventful.  I wrote off the experience as just one of those things that probably happens to everyone sometimes.  Of course everyone occasionally almost shits their pants while running.


God, I was cute.  So naive, so innocent.


About a week later, I was attempting an even longer run on the other side of town.  I got all the way to my turnaround point before I found myself doubled over by the epic battle ensuing within my bowels.  I was chastised.  I had been arrogant to think that I had been spared.  


The 2+ mile walk back to my apartment was the longest, most shameful, most uncomfortable distance I have ever covered on foot.  The upside is that all that ass-clenching was probably a pretty good workout, and it
gave me something to talk about if I ever meet an ex-convict.


But why?  Why me, why this?  Is this even normal?  I mean, I'm not running a friggin' marathon or anything.








*It's really not.  The state line is less than 2 miles from my doorstep.  I'm also not really a self-important, pompous ass.  I just play one on the internet.


**You know what else is weird?  I am 25 and just learned how to spell weird.


***A multivitamin, a fish oil, and a B-complex, if you're interested.  You're not.  I'm sorry.