Bathroom phobia, part II

“Cleanliness becomes more important when godliness is unlikely.”

-P.J. O'Rourke

So I'm a little immature, and I haven't finished writing about the potty. What can I say? Tomorrow I'll get off the subject, OK?

When I was a boy scout, our troop spent two-weeks at a summer camp nestled in the Sandias. My best friend and I had decided to join the scouts, not realizing that we were too weird to gracefully take part in group-based activities. While the rest of the troop was busy tying knots or something around the campfire, Brian and I were dropping glowsticks into the vast hole known as the outhouse. The glowstick illuminated the muddy waste for at least a week. I had no idea they lasted that long.

I didn't make it for the full two weeks. One was enough. If you read my post from yesterday, you know that I carry a somewhat unreasonable fear of public restrooms. Well, even as a child, I had this same fear. So, as you can imagine, placing my butt on that splintered wooden hole filled with there's no telling how many week's worth of you-know-what, without even the paper seat protectors, was not going to happen. No way, Jose.

I had a horrific stomach ache by the time a week had elapsed. I visited the camp nurse, saying that I was terribly ill (she suspected dehydration, but I knew better). The second time I visited her, I said that things were only getting worse, that I was growing ever more sick. Finally, I was sent home to cheer at the sight of clean porcelain. I appreciated the toilet tenfold after that day. I almost curtsied it before using it.

I abandoned poor Brian, though, who returned after a week to say, "Thanks a lot. You left me." I feel bad for the guy--it's hard being the lone outcast in a group of rosy-cheeked campers, but I had my own problems. While the rest of the scouts were learning how to interact as team or a unit, I learned a little something about independence.