I leave Thursday afternoon with a bus load of teenagers for a three day weekend at a large amusement park. While I am a little nervous about the long list of scary rides that I know they’ll drag me onto, I’m even more afraid of what this trip will do to my digestive system. This probably falls under the heading of TMI, but I’m going to share anyway because I suspect some of you have the same issue. In fact, I know you do. Dr. Oz from the Oprah show told me so. I love Dr. Oz. He answers all those medical questions you’re too embarrassed to ask your own doctor. You know, questions about pooping, belching and other bodily functions. He talks about the intestines a lot, and he told me that 38% of us have to find a bathroom immediately after we eat out. It has to do with your body rejecting stuff that doesn’t agree with the unique makeup of your colon. I am a part of that 38% if I eat a lot of junk food. My body can tolerate only so much grease and fat before it starts to betray me.
It’s awfully embarrassing, especially when you’re on a bus with fifteen teenagers, and you have to make an unscheduled stop in the middle of nowhere for a bathroom emergency. That’s what happened last year when we took these same kids to King’s Island. After two and a half days of Taco Bell, KFC and amusement park stuff on a stick my system had had enough. Somewhere along a lonesome, empty parkway with no exit in sight, I broke out in a cold sweat. You know the one. That sweat that tells you to find a bathroom…quickly….and I do mean quickly. Now the funny thing about this is that another adult chaperone on the bus suffered from Crohn’s disease, and his Crohn’s kicked in about the time my colon got all jiggy. We have traveled that parkway dozens of times, and I knew there wasn’t a rest area for miles. We didn’t have miles to spare. I told Hubby, who was driving the bus, to mash the accelerator and get off the highway at a nearby state police post. I knew they had a restroom in their lobby, and I was praying they were open on a Sunday afternoon. So was D., who was practically doubled over by now. As we skidded into the parking lot D. and I jumped off the bus with the laughter of teenagers in our ears, raced up the hill and hit the door, only to find one restroom. “Go.” “No, you go.” “You go.” “JUST GO. GO, GO, GO!” “OKAY.” I’m sure anyone reviewing the security tape of the lobby the next day probably got a really good chuckle out of our stomach holding argument over who was going to go first. I went first, but given D.’s dire circumstances, I was torn between speed and common courtesy. Should I take time to spray and wash my hands or just get out and wash up later? Ahhh! I did not want to be this intimate with D. about bathroom business. It was an odd bonding experience that’s funny now but was very embarrassing then. I really don’t want to repeat it.
That’s why I may not eat at all this weekend. I won’t see a vegetable or grilled piece of meat for three days. If I come back five pounds lighter, it’s because I couldn’t find anything other than a corndog to eat and I had to take a pass because it’s a long drive home from Cincinnati, and I won’t feel like running.
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