"I Poop!"

In the Ladies’ Room, while other women were washing their hands at the row of sinks, redoing their make-up at the mirror, or just plain ol’ peeing in another stall, I was right there with them, pooping. Proudly pooping right out in the open. Well, not really out in the open. You know what I mean.

This triumph of the human will didn’t happen overnight. When I started my job a few years back, I was disheartened to find no private stalls. Previous employment offered such a gift, a refuge where one could BM in private, but at my new job, commodes are communal.

I spend eight hours here, five days a week. I like my coffee black and strong. Naturally, nature’s gonna call. Always the industrial type, I noticed a Starbuck catty-corner from the building (and two more a block apart in opposite directions). While Starbucks is NYC’s go-to for quick, sub-par coffee, it’s also known as our fine city’s #1 public bathroom. There’s no “Bathroom for Customers Only” sign on any of their many doors, so I feel no Catholic guilt for using their facilities without ordering a grande frappamacchiatini. Starbucks’ shitters are the Ellis Island of toilets: Bring us your stinky bums, your tired shoppers, your public-poop shy.

So, if ever I needed to drop some kids off at the pool, I ducked out of work and no one was the wiser. I was a mastermind!

My twentysomething co-worker, Stefanie thought so too. She, like me, was afraid to make her business known, but instead of thinking outside the shit box, she resolved to just hold it until she got home, which made for some unhappy days to say the least. She confessed this to me one day, and I shared with her my Holy Grail.

“OhmoigodMeganyou’reafriggingeniusyousavedmylife!!!” she gushed in a thick Queens accent.

Stef was a poopin’ machine. She was unstoppable. But even she was more self-conscious than me. If ever she needed to go number two, she’d shoot me an email:

“OMG I GOTTA MAKE A STARBUCKS RUN I NEED TO GO BADDDDD.”

Being the Yoda to her Poop Skywalker, I accompanied her for moral support. Instead of a light sabre, Stefanie armed herself with a Lysol spray can to mask her scent, and when she ran out of that she went next door to Duane Reade and bought a travel-sized Axe Body spritzer. Even I thought that was a bit overboard.

“I don’t want anyone to know what I did in there,” she explained.

“Girl. It’s a bathroom. I think we have a vague idea of what you did in there,” I said. “I don’t think anyone really cares. Besides, that bathroom smelled like a monkey house before you ever showed up, and don’t you think the person behind you will think it’s weird you left it smelling like cheap men’s cologne?”

There was no getting through to her. But her paranoia got me thinking. What is it about pooping that women find so shameful?

Not to get all gender studies over here, but seriously. What’s the big deal? We all poop. I’ve never had the pleasure of spending time in a men’s privy, but, like, don’t dudes find a point of pride in their dookie? Some women are afraid to be gross because being gross isn’t feminine, and that’s not only silly, but potentially dangerous.

I went to visit my friend Kelle when her husband was stationed in Hawaii a little over ten years ago. They lived on the barracks in a small but cute apartment with thin walls and the only bathroom right by their bedroom. I was so terrified of the possibility that they might hear me shit that I didn’t the whole week I was there. I was playing with fire.

On the turbulent plane ride back to the Mainland, my digestive tract decided my week’s worth of poi and pineapple overstayed its welcome, and it was time to hit the bricks. I spent most of the seven hour flight in the cramped airplane lavatory, negotiating with my digestive system and the poorly flushing toilet. I’ll never forget that trip to Hawaii. And not because of all the double rainbows.

With each Starbucks bathroom trip, I started recognizing the banality of my self-consciousness. Am I really this vain that I can’t let anyone think gross stuff comes out of me? For those of you who have the infinite pleasure of knowing me, it’s pretty obvious I really don’t give a shit (ha) what anyone thinks for the most part. I’m not high maintenance even a little bit. I don’t wear make-up. I don’t exfoliate as much as I should. There are times when I can’t even get it together to put on pants that button and zip (another story for another day). I’m not a delicate flower. I am strong. I am invincible. I am woman. Smell my poops!

So I’ve embraced my boldness and am now proud to call myself a public pooper. Can I just say how liberating a feeling it is? I am shitting with abandon. And it feels like I’ve scaled the highest mountain. I am healthy and free.

When I told Stefanie about my newfound freedom a few months ago, she thought I was crazy, but just this morning she confessed to me she too is a public pooper.

“I’m flying without wings, Megan,” she beamed.

Yes you are, girl. Yes. You. Are.