A DIGESTIVE DISASTER!

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If you enjoy semi-gross bathroom humor (and who doesn’t!), you will be able to appreciate this little story. However, before we continue, I feel it is my solemn duty to advise you to put down any tasty snacks you might be nibbling on. (Trust me. You’ll thank me later.)

Okay, let’s get started.

There is an unpleasant rule about retirement that I was not aware of. It states that the moment you retire from your job, career, or whatever, you instantly have to start traveling. It is non-negotiable. In my little corner of the world, this was not a welcome development.

Consider this. You spend forty long, torturous years slogging to work each day, and once you finally earn the right to stay home, you are not allowed. You must travel. Against your will. All the time. To places you don’t want to go to.

Now, in my case, that is particularly horrifying because I have what can only be accurately described as a disagreeably delicate digestive tract, an affliction that has a distressing tendency to derail the best-laid plans whenever I’m a significant distance from home. My unsympathetic wife, on the other hand, contends it is all in my head. But, tragically, I know for a fact, it’s a little lower than that.

I only mention my malady because this little piece of information plays an enormous part in the following traveling nightmare. Sorry. I meant to say, in the words of my spouse, “Our traveling adventure!”

With that in mind, I want to enlighten you with the ghastly details surrounding an ordeal that occurred on the first ill-fated trip we embarked on as we entered the final phase of life that is famously dominated by Social Security, Medicare, and sensible shoes.

It started, as it always does, with my lovely bride becoming giddy with enthusiasm. Bursting into the living room, she heartily exclaimed, “Let’s go on a vacation!” Then she made wild assertions that I found difficult to believe. She said, “It will be fun!”… She said, “We will make memories!”… She said, “We will have the time of our lives!”

But now, with the benefit of hard-earned hindsight, I can honestly say those claims were LIES! LIES! LIES!

However, fortunately, for the sake of our marriage, I’m not one to hold a grudge, so let’s move on.

My wife and I enjoy history, and since we’re both old enough to have lived through most of it, she decided we should visit our nation’s capital.

At one of our destinations (a famous museum which I won’t mention by name because I don’t make any money from this little blog, and I can’t afford to be sued for every penny I don’t have), we decided to eat lunch at a large cafeteria they thoughtfully provided for tourists.

Realizing they had a captive audience, the prices were astronomical, and the food was forgettable – except for what I chose to eat. That was a meal I will never forget. It was a healthy salad that eventually convinced me, beyond any doubt whatsoever, that I was going to die. All because it contained KALE.

For those of you who are blissfully unaware of this delectable delight, allow me to fill you in. Kale is a leafy, green, cruciferous vegetable that happens to be loaded with nutrients. The benefits include helping to manage blood pressure, protecting against type 2 diabetes, certain forms of cancer, and boosting overall health. However, I soon discovered that the last claim was dubious at best.

After consuming our meals, we continued exploring, taking photos, and enjoying our afternoon. Little did I know that the timer had been set. At the end of the day, we decided to head back to our hotel to freshen up before going out for dinner. In Washington, the subway system is called the Metro, and it’s a convenient way to get around town.

We had taken our seats in the crowded subway car and just started our journey back to our room when I felt the first rumblings in my stomach. It was a bit like the far-off thunder you hear before the storm actually hits with hurricane force. The longer we rode, the more concerned I became. (The thunder was getting closer and closer.)

My spouse was chattering away about her plans for the next day, but I didn’t hear a word she was saying. My attention was riveted on my spasming colon, which was beginning to feel like it was being wrung out over and over again like a wet towel. (I’m trying to paint a vivid picture here.)

Inevitably, my beloved noticed my distress. (Nothing I do ever gets by her.) Summoning as much patience as she possibly could, she whispered, “Stop squirming around and sit still. You are embarrassing me. People are staring at you.”

But, alas, her selfish demand went unheeded.

I glanced up at the electronic map over the door and saw that our stop was coming up next, but it was five minutes away. I shut my eyes tightly, knowing that the short length of time was going to seem like an eternity, and that knowledge only increased the intensity of my squirming, which became noticeably more strenuous or wiggly if you will.

Soon, beads of perspiration (I guess you could call it flop sweat, considering how much flopping around I was doing) broke out on my forehead as the smoldering conflict below the equator threatened to burst into all-out war with no chance of a truce in sight.

The steadily increasing cramping involuntarily forced me to start crossing and uncrossing my legs in a distinctly unladylike fashion. (I’m not even sure what that means.) At that point, concern about my unusual behavior was growing among my fellow passengers, and several people sitting near us got up and moved away.

My bride, who, after decades of marriage, is resigned to me embarrassing her in public, leaned over and hissed in my ear, “For God’s sake, what has gotten into you?”

As my vision began to blur and I became lightheaded, I started panting because whatever had gotten into me desperately wanted to get out!

If you have ever seen the way a woman attempts to rhythmically breathe when she is in labor, you have some idea of what I was trying to do. Although I think I more closely resembled a panting long-haired Rottweiler on a scorching hot day.

In between my croaking gasps, I blurted out, “I think I ate something bad. Really, really, really BAAAAAAAD!!!”

Unable to refrain from sharing her opinion (a slight personality flaw she frequently struggles with), my wife, without an ounce of sympathy, sniffed haughtily, “I bet it was the kale in your salad.”

Just hearing the word KALE made me double up and cry out for my momma.

Oddly enough, my reaction must have inspired mothers throughout the subway car because they all began grabbing their crying children and holding them close in their arms.

Unfortunately, in my darkest hour, when this dire situation was spinning out of control, and I needed the support and reassurance of my long-suffering spouse, she instead looked at me with familiar disappointment and in a weary voice, asked, “Do you always have to be so dramatic?”

I, however, chose to take the high road and ignore her unkind question because I had become excruciatingly aware that my clothes were now feeling way too tight. (Those of you who are unlucky enough to deal with occasional bloating will know what I’m talking about.) Suddenly, I was swept away by the overpowering urge to loosen an article of clothing. I just wasn’t sure what would be permissible in public that wouldn’t get me arrested.

Leaning over to my bride, I hoarsely rasped, “I think I’m going to be sick.”

She recoiled. “You’re going to throw up? In here? IN THE TRAIN?”

Shaking my head frantically, I said, “I wish. I’m afraid it’s going to be much worse than that.”

At that precise moment, my companion, my confidant, my partner for life, the mother of my child, and my soul mate for all eternity took what she believed was the only reasonable course of action available to her.

SHE FLED.

Showing unexpected nimbleness for a person living in the warm glow of her golden years, she sprang to her feet and bolted to the other end of the car in a less-than-noble attempt to disappear in the throng of disgusted onlookers who were fervently wishing they were anywhere else on earth but who were, instead, trapped against their will in a tightly enclosed space shaking in fear at the gruesome spectacle they knew was imminent.

Now, I think it would be appropriate to pause right here and acknowledge a universal truth that cannot be denied.

There is not a man or woman among us who has not experienced a similar situation where the intense need for a private bathroom, public facility, or a lonely bush alongside an isolated road was denied to them because of circumstances that were cruelly out of their control. Who hasn’t suffered the torment of knowing all too well that sweet relief was just beyond their grasp? All of us have, at some point in our lives, felt the frantic frenzy I endured that fateful day on the subway.

But, incredibly, at the absolute last possible second, when I did not believe I could hold out for even a few more breaths, sweet salvation suddenly arrived like a bolt from the blue, and the petrified passengers in the packed subway car were spared a grisly sight that would have scarred their retinas for life. What would have been a despicable disaster was averted by what can only be described as a miracle from on high that, ironically, unclenched everything down low.

From somewhere deep within my being in a dark, hidden place filled with bubbling, churning, gut-wrenching (well, you can fill in the rest of the adjectives yourself) came a roar, not unlike the descriptions used by grizzled, hardworking farmers in tornado alley to explain the frightening freight train sound of the twister that carried off Bessie, their prized milk cow who was mysteriously never seen again.

It was a roar that began in the soles of my feet and gathered enormous power and energy (not to mention earsplitting volume) as it surged through my body in an urgent, all-out, no-holds-barred unstoppable sprint to purge the salmonella-infested kale from my fragile system.

In other words, I BELCHED.

But this wasn’t just your ordinary, warm beer-induced, garden-variety belch. NO. NO. NO. Far from it.

This was, dare I say, a blood-curdling blast of perilous proportions. Truly an enormous ejection of pent-up gas that created an epic explosion for the ages.

If it had occurred in a hospital setting, it would have instantly become a classic case study presented with professional awe and reverence at top-tier medical universities scattered across the globe. Endless research papers would have been written and studied by generations of future gastroenterologists.

But, unfortunately, it happened in a crowded public place filled with people who were, shall we say, less than enthusiastic about having the opportunity to bear witness to a gargantuan gastrointestinal detonation that, most likely, registered on the Richter scale in the greater metropolitan area.

It was, simply put, an eruption of such power and volume that grown men shook, and women wept. Especially my wife, who I couldn’t help but notice had, with the stealth of a world-class cat burglar, removed her wedding ring in a disingenuous effort to disavow any known association with the man who had just terrified small children with a sound only heard in the wild made by the great northern bull moose during the height of mating season. (In other words, not something appropriate for little ears.)

Meanwhile, the hapless passengers packed together at the other end of the car were covering their ears in a futile attempt to block out any additional sonic shockwaves that might lead to prolonged psychological trauma.

But as for me, the indescribable relief was INSTANTANEOUS!!!

With the pressure at least temporarily relieved, my eyes stopped vibrating back and forth in my head, and I slowly regained my senses, if not my dignity.

Once I came around, I realized we were mercifully reaching our stop. Soon, the train lurched to a halt, and the doors slid open. Carefully, and I mean carefully, I stood up and then, taking baby steps (I didn’t want to jostle my insides and set anything off), I tiptoed to the door. My spouse followed reluctantly, slinking against the wall, trying to shield her face in case anyone took a photo or video to commemorate the comical catastrophe.

Stepping gingerly out of the train, I was shocked when the moment my foot touched the platform, there was a spontaneous outbreak of tumultuous, unrestrained applause and deafening full-throated cheering from my fellow travelers who were beyond ecstatic to be rid of the man who had come within microseconds of being a true-life anecdote they could regale friends and family with for the rest of their lives.

I’m not too proud to admit that I was somewhat chastened by their stinging rebuke. But far more importantly, their complete lack of sensitivity left me feeling disheartened by the sad state of humanity. Where was the compassion, where was the empathy, where was the understanding? And where, by the way, was my spouse?

Somehow, the woman I love had managed to make a slippery getaway unnoticed and was now standing off in the distance, waiting impatiently on the platform for me to join her so she could turn this awful experience into an awful memory that she hoped we would never speak of again.

But, as she often does, my bride underestimated my perpetual need to whine and complain. I intended to make good use of both of those personal attributes to get my two cents in about how I was, most assuredly, scarred for life because she had refused to stand proudly by my side and instead chose to run away like a little girl!

While I was temporarily disappointed by the disappearing act pulled by my wife (I knew I would quickly put it behind me once I cleared my mind with a bathroom break), I was not surprised in the least that she abandoned me in my time of need.

Throughout our long marriage, the woman has demonstrated an annoying propensity to pretend she doesn’t know me whenever I behave with what she, all too frequently, refers to as my imbecilic immaturity. (Hey! Who made her the judge and jury?)

So, when I caught up with my spouse, I decided to express my grievances in no uncertain terms. With as much self-righteous vehemence as I could muster (which was quite a bit, actually), I demanded an answer to one simple question. In a voice filled with sanctimonious indignation, I growled, “What about that little ‘In sickness and in health’ thing you obviously lied about in our wedding vows?”

My bride was having none of it. Employing the same cool, levelheaded, rational voice she always used to put me in my place, she replied, “Oh, grow up. You had a little tummy ache, and, like always, you turned it into a full-blown life-or-death drama.”

Incredulous, I countered with an even more dramatic tone of voice. “It WAS a matter of life or death!!! That was no little tummy ache! My entire life flashed before my eyes, including the future without me in it, and what I saw was you having way too much fun enjoying my life insurance money!”

Completely unfazed by my hyperbolic accusation, my wife made a face and innocently said, “So what this really means is that my long-held dream of living a life of decadent luxury alone has been put on hold because of a burp.”

My spouse has always had an undeniable gift for breaking down a situation to its essence. (A tactic also commonly known as cutting through the BS.)

But, in my humble opinion, my bride had not taken a single aspect of this entire escapade as seriously as she should have. Therefore, several minutes of animated discussion followed with neither one of us giving an inch until suddenly I was snapped back to reality by an all too familiar booming below the beltline.

Like a warning shot fired over my head, the percolating problem south of the border refocused my attention like a laser, providing irrefutable evidence that my thundering, window-rattling belch had, regrettably, provided only the most temporary form of respite, and the need was now becoming overwhelming for a permanent solution.

Therefore, nature, in her relentless, unforgiving way, demanded that I find a bathroom as soon as possible. Meaning NOW. Pronto. Without delay. Immediately. As in, “Get the women and children off the street because I’m going to make a run for it!”

And that is exactly what I did.

But as I dashed away in a desperate search for the ever-elusive porcelain promise of relief, I could clearly hear the love of my life behind me, doubled up with rib-racking laughter, coughing, wheezing, and struggling to catch her breath as she thoroughly enjoyed my latest digestive disaster.