Alright, CyberSpace.  I know that it’s been killing you.  You’ve been sitting around all day, just DYING to know, “What does Sarah think about bowel movements in public restrooms?”

Well, ole buddy, I’m fixing to put an end to that quandry.  Right here, right now. 

This is inspired NOT by, as you may have imagined, walking into a wretched bathroom here at work or elsewhere in public, but by a growing argument between Bryan and myself.  It is tearing this couple apart, as only an argument based on the preferences of Sarah’s lower intestines could.  So I need a vote.

How many people are comfortable having a bowel movement in a public restroom facility?

Because I, my friends, am not.  Bryan says this is ridiculous.  But here is my rationale:

Women exclusively use stalls in the bathroom.  There is no conversational bathroom reparte unless you know the user of the other stall.  It’s not like a men’s room, where you see the full body and face of your neighbor.  Your stall partner is indeed a mystery, unless you can identify them through other means: LIKE SHOES.

So when I am in a stall, bored, and want to strike up a conversation, I observe my fellow reliever’s shoes.  If I recognize them, I’ll make small talk.  For instance, if I see those hot pink crocs that I saw Marsha wearing earlier that day, I might say, “Hey Marsha-Who-Wears-Crocs.. how’s the world on your side of the partition?”  She, in turn, would shift uncomfortably and stammer some incredibly short reply.

Well, let’s say that someone is “getting bagels”, and I worry about the progress they’re making.  Let’s say there’s tons of grunting, and a bit of straining to be heard, and sudden silence follows.  Did they asphyxiate themself?  Did they cause a blood clot?  Should I call for help?  Well, needless to say, I check their shoes and then go tell someone that Slip-On-Sketchers has died on the john.

So I know that women check shoes.  And if I’m in the stall, dropping the Brown family off at the pool, I know someone is going to check my shoes.  Then, as I’m walking around Target or wherever I’ve defiled the restroom, I ALWAYS spot someone eyeing my shoes, then nudging their neighbor and pointing.  “That’s HER,” I know they whisper, “SHE’S the one who’s intestines are clearly rotting.”

That’s the question?  Does anyone else have as many issues as I do?

This morning was a morning of A) why Sarah shouldn’t try to accomplish anything drastic before 8 a.m. and B) why Sarah should start reading labels before putting things in her shopping cart.

SO, I got up early this morning.  I finally bit the bullet and bought hair dye yesterday (I can’t even REMEMBER the last time I put color to my hair), and while I was there, I thought I should start “coloring up” for my wedding, so I grabbed some of my faithful Jergen’s Natural Glow body lotion with bronzers.  I adore the stuff.  As someone who is three shades of 2nd degree burn, it’s one of the few ways for me to get some color to me.. and by far, the cheapest way.

When I got up this morning, I noticed that my hair color smelled odd.  Not, like, weird.. but different.  Then I examined the redhead on the box and realized she is NOT MY USUAL REDHEAD.  Well, shit.  I had bought the wrong color.  And put it on my head. 

No big deal, I rationalized.  I’ve worn all colors of red, and I can carry .. most of them.

So I get out of the shower and realize.. my hair is REALLY red.  Now, granted, I’ve become accustomed to my strawberry blonde color that I’ve adapted over the past year, and this is more .. pre-Bryan-Sarah.  It’s a dark, very red chesnut color.  Which, you know, is fine.. now it matches all of my pieces again.  Hoo-ray!

Once I made piece with my hair, I slathered myself in Jergens.  When I noticed.. I had not picked up the Fair Skin Tones bottle.  I had picked up the darker, Medium Skin Tones bottle.  Jesus.  You may say, what’s the difference, Sarah?  Well, the difference is myself and Steph.  Steph is a medium skin tone.  I am a fair.  I’m just praying that I won’t look like an oompa loompa.

So I was pretty bummed when I got dressed.  My hair is not right, my skin is going to be uber-fake looking, and my tummy is cramping.  So I crawled back into bed, and his eyes fluttered open.  I had debated skipping our usual morning routine and just heading on to work, since he has the day off and could sleep in.

“Hey, gorgeous,” he muttered.

“I didn’t mean to wake you,” I said as I snuggled in to him.  “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry,” he said, nuzzling my forehead.  “I’m not really awake.”  Another flutter of his eyelids.  “You look fantastic today.  And you smell nice, too.”

So I’m walking on sunshine.  You may not know it’s me, but the girl skipping on clouds is most definitely the One and Only Sarah Brown