It’s been officially three days post-medication.  My mouth is slowly starting to feel less like the Sahara Desert, and it has been a little easier to breathe.  Today, I decided to go on a run.

Once a week, I normally run the base.  It is an easy, flat 6.5 miles, and I can usually complete it within the hour.  It really is quite relaxing and mind-clearing; just me and my playlist, pounding concrete, sorting out the thoughts in my head.  On more than one occasion, however, there have been, er, near-mishaps in the poo department.  Apparently, around mile three or four, my bowels also start to feel relaxed and cleared.  (When I get more comfortable in my blog, I may have to tell the tales.  They really are quite hilarious… if you aren’t the one experiencing it.)

I take off at a nice steady 8-mile an hour pace.  The Offspring and The Prodigy set my beat and pave my way (oh wow, am I showing my age!?).  Nothing spectacular; I pass group of Airmen with the same “get some” look on their faces that I guarantee I am portraying. I high-five a couple of their slap-happy asses and continue on.  It feels great not to be sucking on that hair dryer anymore.  I almost feel like me again!

Mile two; a little Da Brat, Funkdafied to start it off and still the great pace and a smile on my face.  I pass my regulars: what’s-his-name from so-and-so and the prego-chic-who-used-to-be-a-base-runner-but-is-now-walking. We give each other the customary smile, nod, and hand wave, and carry on our separate ways.

Gurgle.  Grumble, brrrrrr.

I slow my pace.  This isn’t good.  I am at what, approximately the two and a quarter mark and my bowels elect to start talking?  I haven’t even made it to the CE building yet.  What the fuck?!

I decide to press on.  It was the most inappropriate time possible; not a restroom in sight for another mile, at least.  I was going to have to really bear down to make it to my traditional restroom savior.

Grumble, gurgle, ker-plugh?!

Oh God.  I wasn’t going to make it.  I stop, clenching, bent over at the hip.  I have gone through three pregnancies for fuck’s sakes!!!  For sure I could handle a little gastrointestinal distress!! I start walking… slowly, but back towards my starting point…

Gurgle, grumble brrrrrrrr…….

Oh fuck.  And then, like a knight in shining armor, my husband texts: Where are you?  Oh sweet Jesus.

Being as clinical as possible, because my husband and I have yet to purposely flatulate, poo around each other, etcetera, I text: My fecal matter expulsion system is starting to work.  Now.

It was a written language the hubby understood.  My introduction of Poo Juice into the household came with its fair share of stories of previous constipation and regularity.  Martin is a tad bit lactose intolerant himself, so the discussions of diarrhea and what happens when milk/cheese/yogurt hits his system were also imminent.  And then we have three kids.  Ranging in ages from teen to toddler…..  Okay, honestly, the subject of poop comes up daily.  Numerous times.  We seriously base our dinner conversations around it.  You think I am lying….

As a good husband should, Martin knows my running path and my approximate checkpoints. He texts, I’m on my way.

I’m walking now…. A deliberate sort of walk, complete with cautious stops to “tie my shoe” and “take a breather”.  I hear the Dually in the distance.  I hate that fucking truck with its wide-ass, more than anything in this world, but right now, its engine’s revving is music to my ears. It nears….

“Need a lift, gorgeous?” my husband breathes out the window.  Any other time, I would be totally turned on by his Cowboy-ways, but right now, the only thing on my mind was excretion….

My planned 6.5 mile trek was cut short by about four miles when my entrails decided to intervene.  Hey, baby steps, right?  Every major exercise hurdle should be jumped over with extreme caution.  Mine?  I’m taking baby steps so I don’t shit my pants.  Minus the diaper.