the outhouse incident
About three years ago I picked up camping. It sort of was a package deal: in exchange for a couple days of roughing it, I got kind, wonderful, intelligent outdoorsy Trent. Actually that wasn't the only bonus. Truthfully, I've discovered that there's some serious good times to be had getting in touch with nature.
I have to concede, my camping routine has always had a couple of caveats. I will rough it, tough it, climb it, hike it, cook it, and build it without complaint, as long as I have some running water, a flushing toilet, and an air mattress. Now, that may sound like a lot, but really, go to any state or national park and you'll find the above amenities (air mattress not included). We've covered Zion's, Bryce, the Redwoods, the Adirondacks, and the Fingerlake region without any problem whatsoever.
That is, until Friday night.
For all outside appearances, it couldn't have been a more benign campout: several couples from church were getting together for a fun overnighter. I had no reason to suspect anything could go wrong. And indeed, everything proceeded uneventfully: we arrived at the campsite, set up our tent, settled 'round the campfire for a fun evening with good friends and some s'mores.
Within about an hour, I began to feel that all-to-familiar-urge to run to the bathroom (ah, pregnant women and their bladders...) I wasn't worried, though, as I had already seen what appeared to be some lovely bathrooms about 30 yards away from where the tents were set up. It was pitch black, but we had a lantern. I knew I would be okay.
And then I asked the fateful question, "Um, those are bathrooms up there, right? Not latrines?"
"Oh, no," came the swift reply. "They're latrines...but they're really nice." Okay, more later on the oxymoron of nice latrine (two words that shouldn't ever go together); it's enough to say that my heart sunk past my full bladder and into my shoes.
I tried to play it cool but I must have had a look of alarm on my face. Trent tried to be reassuring, offering me the lantern and a comforting snuggle. "You'll be okay. They're nice. It won't be so bad."
"No," I whispered, so the other tough ladies all around me who were clearly unfazed by the latrines couldn't hear me (a word on why I thought they were tough: 2 of these ladies were sitting around the campfire with newborn babies. One just had her fourth child under 4 years old; the other has 3 kids and is completing her last year of medical school--and had a baby in between semesters before going back full time. These women should have crossed the plains. You get why I didn't have the courage to speak up that sissy old me couldn't walk 30 yards to a latrine) "I can't go. I'll just hold it."
2 comments are important at this juncture: 1) who the heck am I kidding, "I'll just hold it"?? You can't "just hold it" when you're pregnant. You pretty much have to run to the bathroom about every hour, and waiting very long seems like it could likely kick your body into full-on labor. 2) why, you may be wondering, does this girl have such issues with outhouses? why can't she just get over it? I'd like to answer that question, but I cannot. We all have our issues: some people just can't stand to have kitchen cabinet doors left open, some people have an insane fear of spiders, still others have to use anti-bacterial wash every time they pick up anything. I, for whatever reason, have an insane fear of outhouses. And really, is there much more to be explained if you go in and smell one of those puppies? And heaven forbid you actually look in the hole. I swear, it is the opening to the pit of hell. Enough on that.
So, back to the story. I held on quite nobly for another 30 minutes. But things were getting rather uncomfortable. Finally Trent said, "Honey, come on, I'll go with you." "You will?" I asked with some trepidation. "Yes," he said, "and you will see, it's all okay."
And off we went, latern in hand, to the great cabin in the distance that held the really nice latrines.
The door opened with a creak. There sat the outhouse in semi-darkness, illuminated only by a ghostly gleam from the near by solar lamp. Bugs crawling over the lamp were magnified to 10 times their normal size, creating a rather eerie tone for the room and furthering my belief that we were very close to Voldemort's house. "Okay," I said, taking a deep breath, as my fear was being overcast by more urgent matters. "I'm going to do it." Trent actually lifted the lid for me, handed me the lantern, and then turned to go. "I'll be right outside," he said.
I walked fearfully toward the latrine as the shadow bugs danced overhead. I got closer, I almost sat down, and then, I just couldn't do it. "I can't do this!" I yelled. Patient Trent came back in. "Do you want me to stay in here with you?"
Now, one more side commentary is needed. This statement, to me, represents the ultimate sacrifice from my blessed spouse. Not only does he have an overwhelming sense of modesty and propriety which dictates that everyone--spouses included--should keep their bathroom business soley to themselves, but he also has just about the strongest nose in the galaxy, and believe me, that latrine smelled to high heaven. Asking him to sit in that latrine space while I did my business is almost more than either of us could handle. Thus, in this moment, I knew yet again that I married the equivalent of a saint--almost.
"No," I said, as my heart thumped in my chest. "I can't ask you to do that." Then I eyed the evil outhouse once more. "But I can't...I just can't go there."
Oh, the vulnerability! Oh, the randomness! Oh, the queer OCD that is me! Then, even though no one was around, I dropped my voice to a whisper, "Do you think I could just go outside? Is that terrible?"
"You mean you'd rather go outside than stay in here?" Trent's voice was filled with astonishment.
"Yes, please, can I?"
And so, if you happened to be in the Fingerlakes region of Upstate New York last Friday night and walked up to the back side of an outhouse, you may have seen a little more than you bargained for from a terrified pregnant woman, squatting in the trees. If only that were the true end of the story. Sadly, three more times that night nature called, three more times I ran to the cover of the trees, and three more times I bared all rather than face the demonic outhouse.
I am insane, but at least I know it. Next time, you better be darn sure that I'll be checking out the bathroom facilities ahead of time.
I have to concede, my camping routine has always had a couple of caveats. I will rough it, tough it, climb it, hike it, cook it, and build it without complaint, as long as I have some running water, a flushing toilet, and an air mattress. Now, that may sound like a lot, but really, go to any state or national park and you'll find the above amenities (air mattress not included). We've covered Zion's, Bryce, the Redwoods, the Adirondacks, and the Fingerlake region without any problem whatsoever.
That is, until Friday night.
For all outside appearances, it couldn't have been a more benign campout: several couples from church were getting together for a fun overnighter. I had no reason to suspect anything could go wrong. And indeed, everything proceeded uneventfully: we arrived at the campsite, set up our tent, settled 'round the campfire for a fun evening with good friends and some s'mores.
Within about an hour, I began to feel that all-to-familiar-urge to run to the bathroom (ah, pregnant women and their bladders...) I wasn't worried, though, as I had already seen what appeared to be some lovely bathrooms about 30 yards away from where the tents were set up. It was pitch black, but we had a lantern. I knew I would be okay.
And then I asked the fateful question, "Um, those are bathrooms up there, right? Not latrines?"
"Oh, no," came the swift reply. "They're latrines...but they're really nice." Okay, more later on the oxymoron of nice latrine (two words that shouldn't ever go together); it's enough to say that my heart sunk past my full bladder and into my shoes.
I tried to play it cool but I must have had a look of alarm on my face. Trent tried to be reassuring, offering me the lantern and a comforting snuggle. "You'll be okay. They're nice. It won't be so bad."
"No," I whispered, so the other tough ladies all around me who were clearly unfazed by the latrines couldn't hear me (a word on why I thought they were tough: 2 of these ladies were sitting around the campfire with newborn babies. One just had her fourth child under 4 years old; the other has 3 kids and is completing her last year of medical school--and had a baby in between semesters before going back full time. These women should have crossed the plains. You get why I didn't have the courage to speak up that sissy old me couldn't walk 30 yards to a latrine) "I can't go. I'll just hold it."
2 comments are important at this juncture: 1) who the heck am I kidding, "I'll just hold it"?? You can't "just hold it" when you're pregnant. You pretty much have to run to the bathroom about every hour, and waiting very long seems like it could likely kick your body into full-on labor. 2) why, you may be wondering, does this girl have such issues with outhouses? why can't she just get over it? I'd like to answer that question, but I cannot. We all have our issues: some people just can't stand to have kitchen cabinet doors left open, some people have an insane fear of spiders, still others have to use anti-bacterial wash every time they pick up anything. I, for whatever reason, have an insane fear of outhouses. And really, is there much more to be explained if you go in and smell one of those puppies? And heaven forbid you actually look in the hole. I swear, it is the opening to the pit of hell. Enough on that.
So, back to the story. I held on quite nobly for another 30 minutes. But things were getting rather uncomfortable. Finally Trent said, "Honey, come on, I'll go with you." "You will?" I asked with some trepidation. "Yes," he said, "and you will see, it's all okay."
And off we went, latern in hand, to the great cabin in the distance that held the really nice latrines.
The door opened with a creak. There sat the outhouse in semi-darkness, illuminated only by a ghostly gleam from the near by solar lamp. Bugs crawling over the lamp were magnified to 10 times their normal size, creating a rather eerie tone for the room and furthering my belief that we were very close to Voldemort's house. "Okay," I said, taking a deep breath, as my fear was being overcast by more urgent matters. "I'm going to do it." Trent actually lifted the lid for me, handed me the lantern, and then turned to go. "I'll be right outside," he said.
I walked fearfully toward the latrine as the shadow bugs danced overhead. I got closer, I almost sat down, and then, I just couldn't do it. "I can't do this!" I yelled. Patient Trent came back in. "Do you want me to stay in here with you?"
Now, one more side commentary is needed. This statement, to me, represents the ultimate sacrifice from my blessed spouse. Not only does he have an overwhelming sense of modesty and propriety which dictates that everyone--spouses included--should keep their bathroom business soley to themselves, but he also has just about the strongest nose in the galaxy, and believe me, that latrine smelled to high heaven. Asking him to sit in that latrine space while I did my business is almost more than either of us could handle. Thus, in this moment, I knew yet again that I married the equivalent of a saint--almost.
"No," I said, as my heart thumped in my chest. "I can't ask you to do that." Then I eyed the evil outhouse once more. "But I can't...I just can't go there."
Oh, the vulnerability! Oh, the randomness! Oh, the queer OCD that is me! Then, even though no one was around, I dropped my voice to a whisper, "Do you think I could just go outside? Is that terrible?"
"You mean you'd rather go outside than stay in here?" Trent's voice was filled with astonishment.
"Yes, please, can I?"
And so, if you happened to be in the Fingerlakes region of Upstate New York last Friday night and walked up to the back side of an outhouse, you may have seen a little more than you bargained for from a terrified pregnant woman, squatting in the trees. If only that were the true end of the story. Sadly, three more times that night nature called, three more times I ran to the cover of the trees, and three more times I bared all rather than face the demonic outhouse.
I am insane, but at least I know it. Next time, you better be darn sure that I'll be checking out the bathroom facilities ahead of time.
Comments
By the way, going camping while pregnant (not to mention the outdoor pottying) put you up much, much higher on the tough girl list!I hope you had a lovely time!