For some reason, God has blessed me with family and friends who fart freely and talk about poop at length. Granted, they're comfortable with me, so I nod and allow them a judgement-free space to speak (with as little complaining as I can muster).
Thankfully, I've been able to dodge that discussion in all of my past relationships. But, outside of my own romantic life, the topic has become increasingly normative between couples.
It's not enough to know your boyfriend is going number two. Thrillist's Jeremy Glass, for example, believes striking up conversation about crap can "secure levels of intimacy." From Glass' point of view, broaching the topic makes a duo more comfortable, thus much happier. Though he agrees brownie bits are "unsexy," Glass says talking about them builds BFF-like trust.
Don't get me wrong, the how-to manual for poop talk is hilarious and I appreciate his take, but let's be real: Discussing defecation does not a happy couple make (or break).
There are a plethora of ways to increase intimacy without explaining my morning excrement. In the past, I've rattled off embarrassing high school memories and detailed my wildest sex dreams, building a bond with my man that's tighter than a sphincter muscle. That's not the only reason I don't break down what happens in the bathroom, either.
Women might be "poople" too, but I only share what goes down with a BM if I feel sick and need to address it for health reasons.
Otherwise, I'm a stickler about the bathroom being a place of peace, where I can bask in complete alone time.
The ladies' room is where I play with my hair, do my makeup and even call up my BFF if I'm only going number one. My SO shouldn't give a crap about what I'm doing in the bathroom, as long as I clean up any hair left in the sink. If he's not concerned with the shade of my concealer, why would it matter if he knows the shade of my sh*t?
By the aromas I've experienced in dive bars and work bathrooms, I know all too well that everyone has number-two toilet time and gives a Rihanna-level amount of f*cks about who knows it.
In fact, at 17, I was handling bowel movements as a geriatric nursing assistant, so my fear of feces is pretty much nonexistent. I've seen my fair share of crap, from runny puddles to rock-hard balls, but for me the putrid smell of poo wafting from the bathroom just doesn't say "I love you."
I prefer not to share what comes out of my anus with the guy I'm having sex with because there's no better way to kill the mood. Plus, there are so many more things to talk about! I want to laugh at offensive jokes on the "The Carmichael Show" or sh*t-talk the Tar Heels, not chit-chat about turtle heads.
I understand that relationships are about transparency, but what about my toilet session is need-to-know information? I want to have meaningful discourse about dung as much as I want to discuss that pint of ice cream I demolished in one sitting –– it's done now and it never happened.
I know all of you who leave the door open while pooping are shaking your heads, and more power to you. But, for me, dating a guy who doesn't take pleasure in dutch ovens and respects my right to be alone in the loo is a relief greater than flushing a load.
Sharing a life doesn't mean giving up every single detail about myself, especially not my tushy tots. If I need an extra few minutes on the toilet before heading out, I'll make some vague excuse and do what needs to be done.
Sh*t, it's really just that simple.