Warning: Anyone with significant bowel issues or weak stomachs – walk away now.
I’ve had enough friends get divorced to know what to dread and what to look forward to. Or, I thought I did. I fully expected to begin crying at any time for any reason, to drop some of the 20 lbs I gained over the last few years (thank you Divorce Diet), and to vacillate between benevolent understanding and the red hot fury of Mount Vesuvius. I’m comfortable with utterly unpredictable urges for loud music, general violence, or watching Disney movies and sobbing. It happens.
But no one told me about Divorce Diarrhea.
I may not be eating much these days, but when I do? Let’s just say that once I signed my name on that very important line, everything just kind of, loosened up. Is it instead because I am forcing myself to eat a bowl of oatmeal every morning? Maybe.
And I know. I KNOW that this is not what you want to hear right now. But if someone had warned me? I would have prepared.
All I know, is that I wish I had known I would, after paying the requisite $120 for a divorce in Maine, become intimately familiar with every public bathroom in the greater Bangor area. That I would be in the middle of a lesson on critical theory when I feel like Taco just unleashed the brown note. That I would be writing a blog post about poop.
Consider yourself warned, friends. If there is anything else you forgot to tell me? Please. Tell me now. In the meantime, I’m going to go make some chicken and rice.