There are many important things my mom failed to teach me when I was a kid, like how to build a light saber or why slinkies only work in the commercials. But she did teach me one important thing -- never use a port-a-potty.
Port-a-potties, or as they should be known "fetid-feces-holes," are notoriously dark and putrid. (Why is it always so dark in those things? If you think guys have bad aim when the lights are on, well … you can just imagine). No one in their right mind wants to use them.
Despite my mom's sound teaching, pleading, and tears I have at times rebelled and ventured into a port-a-potty. Each time I've regretted it. I cried for a week the first time and swore I would never do it again. But despite the horror of that day, I relapsed. The last time I used a port-a-potty I'm pretty sure a rat or a mutated cockroach stole my underwear; something crawled away with it.
But there are things worse than port-a-potties. Like not making it to a restroom in time. Besides the unpleasant smell and squishy-ness, there is the added horror of public embarrassment. (I'll spare you the gorey details of what happened to me, but let's just say I learned that you can wash pants in a toilet.)
So, here's my dilemma: I know that in the course of the six or so hours it will take me to run the marathon I will need to go to the bathroom. I'm not worried about "number one" I'm pretty sure that with some practice I can use those cups they hand out.
"Number two" is another matter. I'm pretty sure I won't be allowed to detour to a posh hotel so I can use their facilities. Most likely I will be expected to use a port-a-potty. I dread this because I know what will happen:
I'll be running along. I can hold it. I can hold it. I can hold it . . . I can't hold it. I'll veer over to one of the feces shrines. I'll take a deep breath and enter quickly, hoping I don't run out of air before I'm done. After I close and lock the door I will quickly shuffle around desperately trying to avoid touching anything. Shuddering and cringing I will sit on what I hope is the toilet seat. When I'm done I will discover there is no toilet paper. I will angrily whisper synonyms for "number two" and briefly consider using the paper number pinned to my chest, but realize that would probably get me disqualified. Suddenly, I'll remember a trip to Indonesia and having to use a toilet in a mosque there. I'll look around for a hose. There isn't one, but I'm desperate so I'll do what many people around the world do -- I'll use my hand.
The faucet will turn out to be one of those designed by mutant three armed plumbers. I'll hold the lever down with my clean hand and a trickle of water will come out. I'll let go hoping that just this once the water will stay on when the lever isn't being pressed. It won't. Cursing mutant plumbers and apologizing to any future occupants I'll wipe my hand on the wall.
I'll hurriedly try to leave the scene of the crime, but the door will be stuck. I will desperately jiggle and shake it over and over. By this time I'll be sobbing and hysterically screaming, "Let me out!" Then I'll start slamming my body against the door. The door won't budge, but the whole port-a-potty will come crashing down. This will cause the roof to pop off and I'll crawl out covered in blue chemicals and "other stuff". Toilet paper will be stuck to the bottom of my shoe.
Somehow, even though she is hundreds of miles away in Idaho, my mother will instinctively know what has happened. Weeping and holding her nose she'll leave me a voice mail banning me from ever entering her house again.
The whole event will be caught on video and uploaded to YouTube.
So, yeah, I'd like to avoid using a port-a-potty during the race.
*I know, I know today's post was really gross. Can you imagine if you had to use a port-a-potty every day? Or worse, if you didn't even have that. How gross would that be? You'd probably be willing to shell out hundreds of dollars to get some plumbing. So how about shelling out $50 so others can have good sanitation and clean water too?
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