Oh my god. I’m about to talk about poo. Well, not really. I won’t describe it or anything. But I’m going to tell you a story from my life as an example of why you all should feel sorry for people who live with IBS (irritable bowel syndrome).

For my entire life, I have been plagued with this awful and embarrassing life problem. ​ I can’t even count on all my fingers and toes how many times I’ve had to pull over to some shady restaurant or gas station. Or, have had to cancel plans, been late for work, left parties early, or have gone missing for hours. It’s terrible. Like actually terrible. Every time I’m out to dinner, I look at the menu and think ‘what meal will I be ok with?’ And, sadly, the answer is none of them. Sometimes beef is the problem, sometimes it grease, sometimes it’s raw fruits or vegetables, and sometimes it’s cooked ones. Sometimes it’s cheese, and sometimes it’s everything. And yet, sometimes it’s nothing. Sometimes I can eat whatever I want and be fine. What’s that all about? It’s so hard to judge. Really, I now have resulted to praying. The worst part about that, is that I’m praying to a God that I’m not even sure is legit. Ugh, so many conflicts.

Anyway, the story…

It was a cool autumn evening and Mr. Opposite and I had just finished a lovely Swiss Chalet dinner out in the burbs. Before I go on, all you foodies reading this best not be judgin’. Not much in the world beats a quarter chicken white. Anyway, we were driving along the highway when I started to get that swoosh-y feeling in my stomach. “Oh no” I said in a strained voice to Mr. Opposite.

“What’s wrong?”

“It’s my stomach.”

“Ok, well we’re almost home.”

“You’re right. I just need to calm down”

After a few more minutes of driving it happened again. But worse. The swoosh turned into a full on whirlpool hot-tub in my belly.

“You’re going to have to pull over” I said with sweat starting to form on my forehead and upper lip.

“But we’re 10 minutes from home, you can make it,” he responded with a concerned look in his eye.

“Nope, get off on this exit, I’ll find a restaurant”.

We got off the highway and were driving along some major city street. We drove for 5 minutes and passed not one clean looking restaurant. After we left mini-mall land, things took a turn for the worst.

“You need to pull over NOW” I said.

“Where?”

“I don’t care. Just pull over. Look, there’s a gas station.”

“NO WAY, that’s disgusting.” He said back to me.

And even though I technically agreed with him, gas stations are repulsive, I was suffering from the worst pain I have experienced in my life (well, since the last attack) and had goose bumps all over my body. So, I tactfully responded with with the devil in my eye and a demon in my voice, “PULL THE F-ING CAR OVER. I DON’T REALLY CARE THAT YOU’RE A GERM-A-PHOBE. IF I DON’T GET OUT THE CAR RIGHT NOW, THIS SITUATION IS ABOUT TO GET CRAZY”.

My disorder, made me go bat-$hit C-R-A-Z-Y. Feel sorry for me. Feel sorry for Mr. Opposite. There should be a support group for people who are involved with people living with IBS. They could call it, IBS-anon. Gosh, when I look back to that moment, it was one of the first times Mr. Opposite saw me have an attack, I can’t believe he stuck around after that (jokes). Regardless, he must have thought three things:

1. This chick is gross.
2. This chick is really gross.
3. Guess I’m not getting any tonight.

Luckily, the embarrassment from that day has now turned into a funny story. By funny, I mean repulsive.