I’m a person who has a highly regimented poop schedule. Here’s the way it works. I try to poop before I go to bed, but that usually doesn’t work. I can rarely poop right away in the morning because I’m always rushing to get to class, so I usually hold off until after I’ve had my morning coffee. That gets the digestive juices churning and, at about the same time every morning, I poop. Some people think it’s gross to be so in tune with your bodily functions, but I think it’s useful and I am proud to have my poops under control.
Sometimes, however, things get a little thrown off. One day a few months ago, for whatever reason, I didn’t have my coffee in the morning and I didn’t have the time to wait for a non-caffeine-induced poop. I also had to be at Amy Gutmann’s house later that afternoon. Why? I’m not going to tell you.
So I showed up with a dilemma. I could probably hold off until I went home an hour or so later, but the more I thought about it, the more I could not pass up this opportunity. The chance to poop in the porcelain pot of Penn presidents past and present? Duh. I swallowed what shame I had left (at least I’m writing about poop anonymously, right?) and asked my way to the bathroom.
I’ll spare you the details, but boy, what a poop. Not that it was better than any I’ve had before, but I kept thinking to myself: Amy Gutmann, Judith Rodin and more, all pooped here! The neatly folded paper towels and fruity scented hand soap didn’t hurt, either. I did my thing, discretely slipped back into the room I had come from, and smiled to myself.
So yeah, that’s right, I pooped there.
