Port-o-pot?

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High school graduation.  Excitement for new things to come.  Sadness for leaving old friends.  Overwrought emotions from too much booze (you know, the girl who never talked to you, suddenly hugging you, covering your shirt with tears and unrequested streams of snot, telling you that you were the best friend she ever had).  Ah.  What a party.  Until I had to pee.

I had stayed up for the whole night before graduation, drinking Kahlua with my roommate, packing up pretty much everything, because I am nothing if not a procrastinator.  My parents were at a nearby hotel, sleeping well, with visions of their shiny clean graduate dancing in their heads.  At some point I gave up and passed out.

In the morning, somehow I managed to wake up and dress up.  Graduation itself is a bit of a blur.  I do remember our Chaplin quoting a hell of a lot of Bob Dylan.  In fact, maybe he was Bob Dylan.  I remember someone’s gramma passing out because it was hot.  I remember finding a lobster in the grass before the ceremony and wondering, “Is this some weird New England custom?  They throw lobster at the graduates?”  They were actually crawfish, and it had stormed right before the ceremony.  This made sense to people in New England.  This did not make sense to a girl from Saudi Arabia.  Funny I went to that school for three years, and had never seen a crawfish.

My memories are oddly clearer later that evening when I began drinking.  We had some ridiculously expensive champagne (which I appreciated solely for the alcohol content) with the family and after all the formality I was finally released into the trusty hands of some dude I didn’t know.  He had a van.  He was driving to the party.  The Party.

The Party was held at a friend’s house.  “House” being a word that does not quite describe it. It was a mansion.  There were wings.  This friend of mine had his own floor (and yet he lived in a tiny dorm room at a boarding school)!  It was atop their own little mountain! There was a green room, and a purple room, and a stone room.  Okay.  I don’t recall what they were all called, but to me, it was something out of a Scooby Doo episode!  I was expecting eyes in paintings to follow my every move!

There was beer.  There was TONS of beer.  Kegs, people, and port-o-pots.  They didn’t want all those drunken teens in their house!  Wow.  They were smart people.  No wonder they owned a mountain.  I had begun the night with champagne, and now many beers.  A girl can only hold so many health conscious beverages in her bladder.  Time for the port-o-pot.

I left the loud, bubbling, hormone filled booze-fest for just a moment to pee.  I finished up, and went to leave… one problem… the door won’t open!  You’ve got to be kidding me! I am locked in a port-o-pot at my graduation party?  AGH!  I’m going to die in here! Or someone is going to push it over!  Or… Crap!  I’m going to die in here!!

I shouted out for help, but of course no one could hear me.  They were busy talking too loudly in their drunken fits of tears over the departure of their youth.  No one noticed that Krista was missing-in-action.  Eaten by the port-o-pot.  Gawwwddd!!!!  What a way to go.

Needless to say I was panicking.  I was sweating like a beast.  It was New England in June. The humidity is terrible there (even the crawfish thought they were in water).  Add 90% outside humidity to whatever the heck the humidity is inside a port-o-pot and you can imagine what my hair was doing.  What wasn’t glued down to my face with sweat was surely frizzing out and getting bigger by the minute.  I was on the verge of tears – and not because of my rapidly departing high school career.  I finally hit the door just right and broke out of my poo and pee filled prison.

“Hey Kris!”

My heart, which had been beating extremely fast up until that point, suddenly stopped. There, in front of me, was my first boyfriend.  Just a year before he had taken my heart out, through my ears, and tromped it into little bloody pieces on the ground and then roughly shoved it back into my chest cavity through my nose.  He went to away to college and amazingly, I recovered.  It was a brutal surgery, but the teenage heart is a resilient thing!  I had a brief discussion with my heart, convincing it to keep beating – because dying right now, outside a port-o-pot, next to a mansion on a mountain,  with my ex-boyfriend looking on, wondering about my hair being glued to my head (did she try to swim out?) did not sound like a very glamorous way to go.

I somehow survived that moment, obviously.  I slide the mass of wet hair from my forehead and casually said “Oh.  Hey.”  Like, I always look like this.  It’s very trendy in Europe.  And really, this sheen on my skin is just a new effervescent make-up that makes me even hotter than I already am!  The smell of poo and chemicals is really the latest earthy perfume.  Nah.  I didn’t say any of those things.  Instead, I casually speed-walked away to hide, and quickly slam another beer.

I must admit I now have a solid phobia of port-o-pots.  I will NOT use them.  Even if it’s the only option around.  I will drop my pants and pee next to the port-o-pot if I have to.  I won’t even let my daughter use one.  I’m afraid we’ll get locked in there together and if she has a meltdown, with other people’s poo and pee around, oh jeeze.  I just don’t know if I could hold on to my fragile sanity.

I have a bubble, as you know.  In that bubble there are NO port-o-pots, or (non-coffee) drive-thrus (that’s a phobia for a different day).  My bubble is perhaps a little cluttered, but it is not filthy with other people’s excrement.  And there is no lock.  I can leave whenever I want. But, why would I ever want to?  It’s shiny.  It’s happy.  I squat if I need to.

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