the shoe game

When it comes to Number Twos at Work, I am a huge hypocrite. I find myself feeling the urge - the down-town-push-down, if you will - and every time I find myself going through the motions of a pooping pep talk. "Everyone does it! It's a natural thing and it's no big deal! No one even notices. You don't have a one-person handicapped bathroom for personal retreat anymore, so you're going to have to suck it up like everyone else and pick a stall! Really, it's UNnatural for you to hold it. Now get in there and drop some business! People could care less!!"

And so I go, relishing in the fact that it's natural. Everyone does it. No need to feel embarrassed that a co-worker walks in mid-push. She poops, too!

Fast-forward three hours...

My relentless green tea addiction prompts me, once again, to visit the Ladies. I have a different agenda this time, though. No longer do I need the pep talk to push me over the hump of the pooping stigma. I have to pee! There's no shame in that! I can do that with the door open if I want, while two lesbians make out in the corner*!

So in I go, with all the confidence of... well... someone who has a lot of confidence. I pick the third stall (it's my favorite, as it's a taller toilet and I'm a bit of a leggy bitch) and take my time. Then I remember that the stall door next to me was closed and its occupant has been extremely quiet the whole time. There's the awkward silence that occurs when no toilet paper is being shuffled, no fluids are being released, no pants are being zipped. She's waiting it out; holding out for me to leave so she can finish up undetected. I know her game. She's lying in wait, knowing that if she were to be identified she wouldn't be able to look me in the eyes later as she passes me in the hall.

My hypocrite soul will not stand for this. She must be outed! Cue The Shoe Game.

I quietly finish my business and sneak a quick peek at her shoes from under the stall door. She's been ID'd! The rest of my day is chock full of hide-and-seek fun, looking at every woman's shoes as I pass them in the hallways. No chance that I'll be caught sitting at my desk reading blogs today. No way. I'm a woman on a mission.

Once I find those shoes, it's all I can do to restrain myself from pointing, giggling and saying "You dirty work pooper! I know it was you!! You dropped bombs like Hiroshima!"

Bless my heart.

*story for another time, my friend. Story for another time.