DON'T GET ME STARTED

I have always been fascinated by body functions. I know; nobody wants to go there but I can’t help myself. I am a spitter, have always been a spitter. My mother never really cared as long as I kept it outside and away from others. My male role models were spitters. Some spat tobacco and others spat seeds, some spat whatever rolled up on their tongue. I don’t think about it as a rule but it’s too complex to ignore. Like responsible gun owners, there is an unspoken principle that if you shoot, you need be accurate. Bullet or spat, you take aim and put it exactly where you want it. Consider the volume, shape of the mouth and all the parts that grow there. When your mouth is closed, there is no unoccupied space in there. The way teeth close together, lips press back against the teeth, tongue presses up against the palate, there’s just no space for vagrant objects. A stowaway seed or build up of saliva require some kind of resolution. 

We marvel at the dexterity of hands and fingers with opposed thumbs but the tongue and lower jaw are equally nimble, crowded, confined, with tolerances that offer no margin for error . Nourishment is reduced to an unthinkable mass of stuff that might taste good but revolting to look at. At best, it’s just passing through, like grass through the lawn mower. As I’m chewing I try to visualize the working of jaw and tongue, moving morsels to the perfect spot between upper and lower gainers, or lined up under choppers as the jaw shreds and tears. Then it senses where the finished parts are and what needs to be realigned and shredded again. It moves everything to the best alignment  for the next, seamless jaw-cycle without a hitch or delay. The slightest error in location or timing and the sensitive edge of the tongue or cheek flesh come alive in a painful, mind numbing jolt that stops everything. You curse internally and moan a moan that is usually reserved for a hammer/thumb collision or a sharp blow to the shin bone. You catch yourself after five or ten seconds and silently think, ‘Whatever I have to do to not do that again, I will surely do.’ Then you try to move your tongue and cheek so it doesn’t hurt so bad but that doesn’t usually help. For the rest of the meal you slow down, pay particular attention to those normally automatic, motor functions. You know that the insulted flesh will swell, sizing down those tight tolerances between teeth and tongue and you'll likely bite yourself again before the swelling goes down.'Why did I do that?'

This morning I dressed in the dark, no problem. I stopped for breakfast at the Morning Star Cafe in Grand Haven, MI. After my blueberries with oatmeal and a cup of hazelnut decaf, I went to the men’s room. The discovery was not alarming, just unexpected. I had put my underwear on wrong side out and backwards. Some clothing brands now sew their label on boxer shorts on the outside/front of the waist band. The mistake is understandable but I take full responsibility for dressing myself. After some maneuvering I was able to finish my task without incident. At the coffee shop, two hours later, I needed to go again and was ready for the inconvenience. To undress and realign my boxers was unnecessary. Body functions, not appropriate for some conversations but never irrelevant. As I stood there I was overwhelmed by the smell of diarrhea. You can not mistake it. As I did my business I determined that the source was inside the first commode stall, behind a closed door. I saw blue jeans in a heap on the floor with empty tennis shoes and socks pushed off to the side. It was sort of like religion, a revelation; the poor soul didn’t make it to the toilet in time. There he was in a public rest room, undone by bodily function gone awry. His condition left him unacceptably compromised. There was nothing anybody could do. How to egress without offending, grossing out any and everyone who might be in proximity. The smell is a universal message that the IG tract is in revolt over something you brought upon yourself or a rogue virus that has no sympathy at all. 

In college, Human Anatomy & Physiology was one of my few major courses where I made an A. I was a solid B student but this class was awesome, with a great professor. Somewhere in that journey I learned that we should, if not study, at least look closely at what we leave behind. Its color, texture and volume tell us volumes about our immediate health and well being. In this man’s case you didn’t need to look, you knew from a distance. As I rearranged my boxers and made for the door there was a feeling that meld a helpless sympathy for a pitiful stranger, gratitude for my own good health and a timely escape. The body works even when it malfunctions. Body functions, what can you do? Don’t get me started on perspiration and pheromones.