Which came first: The Soda Pop or this Poem?
If it’s yellow, let it mellow.
If it’s brown, flush it down.
I have to be honest. I wasn’t expecting the election results to come so early and I didn’t want to worry my election day away checking emails, Google results and Instagram. So I turned my phone off and worked in the yard figuring whatever will be, will be. The yard work consisted of constructing a set of stairs into the side of a hill giving us safer access to our ripening lemon tree which stands short, a new kid in an aging avocado grove. Physical labor is still in my blood. All men above me in lineage were working types and I use it to my advantage now as exercise and zen, a way to lively-up-myself to conjure fresh lyrics, a tip from Bob Marley, learned in the latest documentary about him.
Later that evening I took a break from writing my new romances and powered my phone on. I’d heard that my roommate had a flat tire and I wanted to see not so much if he was okay, but whatever pic may be posted of him changing the tire. I hadn’t anticipated the election being concluded so soon, assuming it would be a tighter, longer race, hence my enthusiasm for the vote this year. Needless to say, and perhaps tactless to say, I was so shocked by the early reports, to turn a phrase, I about shit myself.
And so to commemorate the end of this election season, I rest my political commentary on this blog with a post about a time I actually did shit myself.
In our house, if it’s yellow, we let it mellow. And if it’s brown, we flush it down. We haven’t gotten into compostable toilets yet, but predict they’re in a not too distant future. But this isn’t an entry about being green. It’s about childhood, when I didn’t know what being green was; only that being green wasn’t easy according to my Muppet Idol.
For a short while in my strange youth, I used to be bothered with going to the bathroom. I didn’t want to stop whatever I was doing; breaking concentration, inspiration or motivation with temporary relocation. And so I would hold it until it was painful.
One summer I was playing in the waves at VA beach. Or maybe it was Nags Head. Or Myrtle. I can’t remember the geography. I just remember the east coast beaches being wide and when you’re near the water, it’s a long way back to the motel, and suffice to say at my young age, I couldn’t be trusted to go it alone and I didn’t want to bother an adult. So I suppressed my urge.
At one point I’m a little above knee deep in the whitewash trying to act casual when a large wave appeared and flipped me over. At this point I got the full realization of having the shit scared out of me.
Rather than put my tail between my legs, I put my trust in bio-remediation and released the contents of my shorts into the retreating flush of the Atlantic Ocean forgetting that waves ebb and flow. Almost as quickly as it went, it came back again, washing up on the beach seconds later. With handfuls of sand I buried what I could, all to the sand crabs dismay. I felt shitty about it. Literally and figuratively.
After that incident I began planning my time a little wiser. These days I enjoy my quiet time in the bathroom, as most men do. In fact, it’s the most common place you’ll find me tweeting, following my Instagram feed, or updating this blog.