I don’t want to alarm you, but I woke up to a boy pooping. Yes, I rolled out of bed on Thursday, ready for a full day of classes, and immediately left my room to use the bathroom. I was only half awake when I opened the door to the single stall restroom to reveal a male human mid-poop. That’s right, folks; before I could even put in my contacts, I was faced with this shit.
“Sorry, sorry, sorry,” he squealed. Now, I’ve been around the block a few times. This wasn’t my first rodeo (and by “rodeo,” I mean “time walking in on someone pooping”), so I remained expressionless and taciturn as I smoothly redirected myself to the other bathroom. I thought I was calm, cool, and collected. I thought I would be unaffected. I didn’t need to lose my shit just because he lost his, am I right?
Like a hubristic fool I continued about my routine. Little did I know that this event would set the tone for the rest of my day…
I first noticed the damage while going to class. I was seized by panic as I opened the door to my classroom, and I realized that I truly expected to find some horror on the other side. No door was safe, and even as I exited my dorm to accept my Domino’s delivery, I half expected to find a shame-faced young man with his pants around his ankles. My confidence was more shattered than my iPhone screen (and that screen has been known to inflict hand wounds).
My sunrise surprise continued to affect me even when the tables were turned. Each time I entered a bathroom, I checked the lock several times. In an act of paranoia with eyes glued to the doorknob, I attempted to execute the world’s fastest pee. I do not recommend this.
In what can only be explained as a self preservation technique, I brainstormed things to say if someone were to walk in on me, including (but not limited to):
- “Zooweemama!”
- “Whoopsiedaisies! I whoopsiedun goofed!”
- “Would you mind wiping your feet on the mat before you come in?”
- “The real Avril Lavigne died in 2003 and someone has been impersonating her ever since.”
Thankfully I did not have to say any of those things, but I began to think more about the string of sorry’s spewed by the boy I knew intimately without really knowing at all. Throughout the day, my peers would apologize for innocent mistakes – bumping into me, not holding the door, etc. – and I spiraled back into that dark place. I had to fight my primal instinct to turn and walk away from these people in complete silence.
Most surprising of all, I began to feel guilty, as if I were somehow at fault. Should I have said, “Apology accepted” to put him at ease? There was no need to apologize, anyway – my sudden appearance was certainly punishment enough for not locking the door. Should I send him a Brown admirer saying, “No, I’m sorry?” I mean, was I raised by wolves? I should have knocked!
By the end of the day, I think I had gone through the five stages of grief, culminating in a serene acceptance of my circumstances. All that remains is my personal message for the boy who stuck with me from the moment I woke up to the moment I fell asleep: Boy, if you’re reading this, I want you to know that I forgive you. We are stronger than the shitstorm.
