You Gotta Doo What you Gotta Doo

If you’ve been following along for a while, first of all, good on ‘ya! Second of all, are you okay…?

If you’ve been a long-time lurker, then you know I’m somewhat of a fecal non-fictionary; a shit-scribbler if you will–the topic, not the quality (I hope). If you need a refresher, here are posts one and two on the subject. Now if this intro or title in any way offends you or gives you a sense of unease, click out now. This story I’m about to share is graphic, disturbing, raw, and beyond humiliating for the protagonist–yours truly.

To quote a great writer myself, “… holy hell was that traumatizing.” That’s all I could express the last time the subject was eluded to on this blog. At that point in time, I was still mentally recovering from the events that happened on the beach of Kitty Hawk, North Carolina in the summer of 2022. I wasn’t ready to mentally relive the experience as I typed out my thoughts. Hell, I’m not sure I’m 100% ready now, but if not now…?

One sure thing about me is if I’m going on vacation, I will be on my period at some point. It’s one of my unamazing superpowers; yes, there are several. This trip was no different. I started my period midway through the week, which meant I was on day 2 on the last full day of our getaway. Ladies, can you feel me? It was an overcast day and I wasn’t feeling bikini-ready, but I was determined to spend at least part of my day at the beach on the beach. The rest of the family hung back at the house with the pets, so my husband and I decided to make it a date-day; we packed up a picnic, grabbed our books and a couple of cigars and headed out. Since it was cloudy, the beach wasn’t super packed with beachgoers, so we were able to stake out a patch of sand that was roughly 40 yards from the closest family. We wanted a wide berth since we would be smoking and didn’t want to bother anyone. We tried to be respectful of those around us…

After digging out the perfect boobie holes under my beach towel and locating my ‘gar, I assumed the position: laying on my stomach with a book in one hand and a cigar in the other–completely blissed out. Until my substance of choice went out.

Typically, when I notice my cigar losing its light, I just take a longer than normal drag to reignite it. This usually yields great results, but on the beach where wind is a steady factor, my cigar kept going out. I would puff, puff, puff to no avail and just have to reach for the lighter to relight it. After about an hour of this long drag, light, long drag, light method, I started feeling off. I became extremely lightheaded and the slightest wave of nausea would pass through me every so often. I ditched the not even half smoked stogie and made a beeline for the water hoping the cool moisture would set me straight.

I headed back to my towel and laid down alerting Fella of my unease. He said I was probably just doing too much breathe work on my cigar and that I should just take it easy for a bit. I was nursing on a water bottle alternating between laying flat on my back and sitting up watching the waves all the while willing my nausea away. Every so often, boo-thang would make his presence known just by inquiring about my wellbeing and each time I would grunt, offer a thumbs down, and slowly shake my head to convey that things were not progressing for the better. As I was sat up gazing across the water, I noticed a pod of dolphins in the distance. I also noticed the gurgling intensify in my stomach. As my husband began taking in what I assume he felt to be a semi-romantic moment on the beach with his wife watching dolphins swim by, I started digging a hole in the sand in front of my towel. Whether I was going to have to use it or not was still in question, but I figured why not have an ‘exit plan’ just in case. Once my crater reached an appropriate size, I sat in front of it trying for the first time in my life to Zen the fuck out. Never have I ever attempted meditation, but I figured this moment was as good as any.

Next thing I knew I was retching into the sand trench while my better half was rubbing my back; always a gentleman that husband ‘o mine. Luckily (?) I’m a pretty quiet thrower-upper, so I don’t think I drew much attention from our neighbors, but given the circumstances, they weren’t of much concern. Once I felt my bile stock was depleted, I slowly began shuffling sand back to its original placement to hide the evidence (with help from my Price Charming of course).

After taking a moment to compose myself and realizing my reality, (that I had likely given myself nicotine poisoning [symptoms including but not limited to: headache, dizziness, nausea, vomiting, and diarrhea]) we started packing up our belongings to head back to the house for some creature comforts one in poor condition find… comforting. Things like a toilet, a fizzy beverage to calm the stomach, AC, the lack of strangers gawking; you know, the basics. My better half helped me to my feet and we slowly made our way across the beach towards the public access trail from whence we came. I was still feeling quite ill, but the desire to not be in public was propelling me forward one struggling step through sand at a time.

So here is where my lady problems came into play. While the female body is experiencing menses, not only is the uterus evacuating it’s innards, the bowels tend to want to do the same, hence period poops. Combine this natural phenomenon with my having all but smoked Exlax, a storm was a-bruin…

I caught up with my pack-mule just at the threshold of the access trail and with what I can only imagine to be the look of absolute dread confessed: “I think I’m going to shit myself.”

I dropped down to my knees next to the nearby dune and started digging. I already proved this method a success only minutes before, why not go for round 2? Sensing my urgency and acuteness of the situation at hand, this man whom I married dropped everything and started digging alongside me. I told him to toss me the beach towel to use as a shield and asked for some privacy as I was about to equally humiliate and relieve myself all at once.

I did what I had to do all the while praying to any and all deities that the family a mere 20ft away were, and remained, completely oblivious to the female defecating in the sand right behind them with her ‘bodyguard’ standing awkwardly beside her. Once the pipes were emptied, I repositioned my swim bottoms, shifted the sands once more, wrapped myself in the towel-turned-privacy sheet, and away we went as if I hadn’t just committed a criminal offense.

And there you have it. I walked away from that beach a changed woman and with new found adulation for my life partner. Will I return to the nationally treasured beach for some more fun in the sun without experiencing PTSD? Probably not. Have I given up smoking cigars? No, but I’m much more cautious and will only partake when I’m close to a restroom. Did I marry a gem of a human who takes his vows “in sickness and in health” to the next level? Abso-fucking-lutely!


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