Sunday, Burning Sunday

So, I spent all day today reading. Some of you might be saying, “Well, what a nice way to spend a Sunday.” I agree, spending a Sunday reading is a very pleasant idea…when you do it by choice. No, my Sunday spent reading was against my will. “Were you held hostage by a terrorist organization?” In a way, yes. Not an organization, per say, but reading was not the way I had originally planned to spend today. I had planned on mowing my lawn, washing my truck, and playing a little tennis, but my bowels had other ideas about how I should spend my time.

It all started about six o’ clock this morning with a gurgle and a pain deep down in my stomach like someone was trying to pull it through my navel. I immediately woke up to tell this person to get bent and explain the laws of human physiology that made this feat impossible when I realized that I was alone and my stomach was actually trying to crawl out of my navel. This was a different situation all together. I sat on my bed in the dawn light and pondered my options when another gurgle and a jolt of pain made my options very clear. I headed toward the bathroom and commenced my day.

Sautéed onions were the cause of this fun filled day of leisure reading, and occasional weeping. You see when a full-blown cause of “the terrible D word” hits there is not much you can really do about it. What happens is that every fifteen minutes or so you get this cramp and your stomach goes into a spasmic convulsion warning you that you have approximately two minutes before it evacuates itself via your backdoor like a robber escaping the scene of a crime. The bad thing is that your stomach doesn’t discriminate when it comes to your current location; whether it be the office, a traffic jam, or on a Farris wheel.

The way most people counter this unscrupulous behavior of the stomach is to remain within five strides a bathroom and pray a lot. The way I dealt with my situation is that I just headed my stomach off at the pass, so to speak, and spent all day seated on the throne (with occasional respites to walk around and wake up my right leg that seems to go to sleep after and hour) so that when my stomach gurgles and says time to get to a toilet I can say “Ha Stomach! Beat ya to the punch! I’m already here, so do your worst!” Then my stomach would yell loudly, swish around, and evacuate quickly just in case I was joking and on the off chance that I was wearing any undergarment that it could ruin.

This worked most of the day, but then I ran into a situation about mid-day. Fate (being my arch enemy when it comes to humility and self-actualization) decided to pull a three pronged attack on me and cause me to risk mortal embarrassment and a good pair of shorts. At about one o’ clock the stars aligned correctly and I ran out of toilet paper, smoked my last cigarette, and I finished the current book I was reading. Two of the problems (TP and a book) could be solved in the comfort on my own home and within a quick sprint to the bathroom, but cigarettes I would have to go out for. This created a dent in the comfort zone I had built up. I had to decide either to remain in the house without smoking or risk a foray into the outside world for supplies with the danger of surprising countless strangers in the middle of a convenience store with a loud rumble in my lions and a sudden stench. If you are yourself a smoker then you know what my decision ended up being.

So I risked a trip. Everything went smoothly at the store. I bought my cigarettes, a bottle of Tums, and a ginger ale without ruining someone else’s day. It was on the ride home that my stomach decided to strike against me and teach me a lesson about mocking it. About half-way to my house the (now familiar) gurgle rose in my bowels and the pain shot across my abdomen signaling my two-minute warning when I was five minutes from the house. Thus I broke several speed laws and defied the forces of gravity and inertia around several corners to make it to my house. My neighbors (who were all outside doing yard work and other home improvement activities) must have been awfully surprised when I peeled down the street, pulled into my drive-way sideways, and rushed from my truck to my door sweating and holding a paper bag closely to my stomach like a heroin addict rushing inside to open a vein. I’ll now have to send out a memo to everyone on my street with a letter explaining my actions and a copy of a drug test report to prove that they are not living next to a junky.

About seven o’ clock I emerged from the bathroom feeling empty to my bones and with a burning in my lower regions that hints at possible hemorrhoidial problem later in the future. I have made it long enough to type this narrative down in case no one hears from again and they enter my house to find the dried up husk of my former self sitting on the toilet with twenty empty cigarette packs, eighteen well read books, and twenty-four cardboard toilet paper rolls scattered around me. I hope everyone’s Sunday was better than mine.

*Note: This blog was an exaggeration of actual events. The author only had four rolls of toilet paper, not twenty-four.