We’re back from Europe, and now my pooping schedule is off. I’ve been pondering this pretty obsessively, and I’ve come up with two possible reasons for the problem. First, considering that Budapest is nine hours ahead of Seattle, my bowels may be under the false impression that it is now 6pm, not 9am. Alternatively, my stomach and intestines simply may not have recovered from Wednesday night when, through projectile vomiting and other disgusting means, they entirely rejected all of their contents, earlier provided by Lufthansa Airlines. (As an aside, I do find it ironic that Monica and I spent five weeks in Eastern Europe, often drinking tap water, without one incident of Montezuma’s revenge. Then, on the first night in our own house, I became violently ill and bedridden for a day and a half.)
Oh, how I long for the good old days when my body would, within ten minutes, respond to a strong mug of coffee, leaving me free of worry for the rest of the day.
Today, we’re taking Tebow for an hour-long walk to the groomer. Will I be struck, like a punch in the gut, with the uncontrollable need at an inconvenient place and time? Should I bring a roll of TP in case I’m forced to squat behind a tree or between parked cars? This journey is the start of an untested, uncertain chapter in my life.
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