A few months ago a couple of my friends and I were lounging around a friend's apartment, enjoying No Pants Day. No Pants Day is an all-too-rare treat that happens when massive amounts of alcohol are consumed the previous night, causing party participants to collectively pass out in one location (usually in what is called "9-Spoon", where everyone faces the same direction and sleeps in a big spooning formation). The following day, the apartment crashers must abide by the following rules:
1) No pants are allowed. The name is not Pajama Pants Day, it is No Pants Day. If they must, participants are allowed to wrap a blanket, afghan or throw around their nether region.
2) Someone must provide breakfast and Gatorade. If breakfast and Gatorade are not readily available at the friend's apartment, someone must go out to retrieve them. Again, under no circumstances are pants allowed. This is why God invented drive-throughs, both of the fast food and convenience store variety.
3) At least three movies must be watched. Past and often-recurring favorites include Romy and Michele's High School Reunion, Super Troopers, Reality Bites and Sixteen Candles.
4) Appropriate underwear is highly recommended.
On this particular No Pants Day, one of my friends Lynn had an unfortunate stomachache. This is hardly uncommon, given the nature of traditional No Pants Day Eves and their natural association with buckets of hard liquor. Lynn eventually wrapped her lower half in a blanket and excused herself from the movie-watching festivities to spent some alone time in the bathroom.
Ten minutes later we hear - through the bathroom door - Lynn erupt in giggles. She throws open the door and yells "You guys! Get in here and look at this!! OHMYGOD!!!"
Three of us immediately jump up without even the slightest hesitation.
The Boyfriend (who was actually just Best Guy Friend at the time) remained seated on the couch, expressing his disgust for our bathroom interest.
"You guys are jumping up and running to look at her poop! That. is. sick. Sick. and. wrong."
Lynn showed us her twosie treasure and we all had to laugh. She had been in the bathroom for over ten minutes and barely had one goat-poop-sized ball to show for it. How is that not funny? We all had a good giggle and then resumed our positions on the overstuffed couches.
A few months later, the above event somehow crept into our conversation. The Boyfriend (no longer Best Guy Friend) had apparently been haunted for months and now felt it necessary to have a sit-down with me.
The Boyfriend: "I want you to know how much I love you."
Not Lisa: "Are you breaking up with me in a really fucked up fashion?"
The Boyfriend: "No. But I do have something very serious that I need to tell you. It's important that you remember this for always and forever."
Not Lisa: "Hmm... okay."
The Boyfriend: "I love you so much that I can't even begin to describe it. It's an embarrassing amount. I'm ashamed of it sometimes because dudes aren't supposed to feel this way, unless they're in an Oxygen movie. But - no matter how much I love you - I will never, ever, under any circumstances come and look at your poop."
I didn't know what to do with this. My friends and I have always been very open in our poo-communication. I was raised this way. My mom taught me how to count by making me take inventory of my poop in the toddler trainer potty. I paused for a bit before responding.
Not Lisa: "What if my poop came out looking like the Messiah and I needed a second opinion before taking a picture to upload on eBay?"
The Boyfriend: "Only if the Messiah had a holy halo created by pee. That's the ONE exception."