Well, this was bound to happen sooner or later...

Last night I went to the wedding of a good friend from college. We roomed together in New York and abroad in London, and met our husbands around the same time at the end of our senior years. The wedding was beautiful; she wore a lace dress and daisies adorned her hair and the tables, and hung upside-down from the chandeliers. She and her husband are vegetarian, and Matt had a a portobello mushroom dish, while I had vegetarian lasagna. I then helped myself to two wedding cupcakes, one red velvet and another a chocolate with buttercream frosting. This was also after I inhaled, eh, two stuffed mushrooms, some pita with hummus, and a couple spring rolls. (All delicious.) This, of course, was washed down with two vodka collins, a chardonnay, and a baybreeze (an embarrassingly girly drink, I know). Then I did something incredibly ill-advised and stupid: I danced. And boy did I.

Now, dancing is cringe-worthy for many reasons. Matt and I cannot dance (particularly Matt...sorry, I only speak the truth, he looks like some sort of alien ape man, new to Earth, and trying to figure out this thing we call "dancing"). Also, I am a big white girl - that is reason enough why I should not dance. Secondly, and I just realized this now, in an effort to get out the door in a hurry (we had gotten back from Vegas the middle of the night prior) I didn't shave my armpits, and sadly, was swinging them wildly during "September" by Earth, Wind, and Fire. Every "ahh eee ahhhh!" I swung those babies over my head as I breathlessy screeched the lyrics. Now, this wasn't like four-week old hair...I'd say about a week and a half of growth. This wouldn't have been a problem if the videograher didn't sashay over to my dance corner repeatedly, bright light and all...but he did. (My apologies to the bride and groom.) I guess I was bringing a lot of attention to myself. (Note: But how could you NOT dance to this song?!) Thirdly, I should not dance because my insides were jostling around with every "ahh eee ahhh!". By the time The Jackson 5's "I Want You Back" was playing (and what a fabulous song it is) I was grabbing my stomach, clenching the cheeks (as in butt), and hobbling off the dance floor. "I have to go to the bathroom," I hissed to Matt. "What?!" he said. "I HAVE TO GO TO THE BATHROOM!!"

I made a beeline to the toilet, but there were half a dozen ladies in there, primping and giggling, and doing what ladies do at a wedding. Luckily, I knew no one and said heck with it, and went into the handicap stall. I noticed that the toilet still had toilet paper in it from prior use, but didn't think much of it. I had a situation on my hands.

I was sweating as I pulled down my Spanx (you know, to suck everything in - a modern day girdle, if you will, and don't lie and say you never wore one). Then I did my business. The acoustics in the bathroom were startlingly painful- I swear, everything was magnified and the prim and proper ladies paused for a second (probably in abject horror), and then returned to their chitchat. You see, usually I wait until a bathroom is vacant for situations like this - Yes, I have a tad bit of decency, you know, even if I am talking about defecation on these pages. But this bathroom had a revolving line of women, and there was nothing I could do. In situations like this, I employ the "flush method", which is when I flush when I feel a particularly big, eh, elimination coming on. So I flushed, very happy with my slyness (which was not really all that sly, considering the ladies already heard everything they needed to hear).

But this time I didn't hear the typical swoosh of the toilet, and when I looked down all I saw was a toilet bowel full of brown murkiness. OH SHIT, OH SHIT, OH SHIT!!!! (Yes, literally.) I stood there, my girdle around my ankles. Since I am very smart (cough, cough), I flushed again. The water rose to the brim. DON'T OVERFLOW, DON'T OVERFLOW, I kept repeating. It didn't...barely. I had no recourse: I hiked my underthings up, walked out of the stall to about three or so awaiting women, and announced the following: "Ladies, there is a situation, if you know what I mean, in there. I am closing this stall door - DO NOT LOOK IN! (Nervous laugh.) It's not pretty. (Awkward smile.) I am going to find a plunger." I then ran out of the bathroom.

I stumbled into the kitchen, where the waitstaff was congregating. It took them about ten minutes to locate a plunger. I considering trying to explain it really wasn't me who clogged the toilet; I had just contributed to the problem. Really. But I thought, who am I kidding? The woman working kindly offered to help, but I thought, if there is anything even more cruel than clogging a toilet with your feces, it is having a poor, innocent soul suction out the said feces. "No," I demurred. "Really - I can handle it." And handle it I did. (A special thank you to the woman I asked to "stand guide" at the stall when I located a plunger; no one needed to see that.)

I plunged away as the DJ played Outcast's "Hey Ya!" and it was a glorious moment when the water rescinded. I tested the toilet by flushing twice, a few minutes from one another. I was taking no chances.

I placed the plunger in the corner and left the stall, washed my bands, rubbed the sweat off my forehead and nose, and returned to our table, where Matt was nursing a Heineken. "Are you okay?" he asked. Long bathroom visits are nothing new, for me, and a particularly long one isn't that odd, given my condition. It was nothing new to not feel well when eating out.

"I'm fine, " I said. "And I just got some material for the blog."

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Earth, Wind, & Fire's "September".... dance with me now!!