TMI, my friends, TMI
I was having brunch one day with a group of girlfriends. There we were, all dressed for our posh brunch, professionals and established in our own ways. For someone looking in, the picture was one of poise and womanly charm.
Yet, if you listened in on our conversation, oh the horror! We were having cake and coffee after lunch and sharing stories of puke, constipation, child birth and other unmentionables in such gruesome detail that I worried that the next table of young girls might develop a phobia of growing old and becoming…us. Us The Older Women With Worn-down Dysfunctional Parts.
I had always been quite conservative and shy about bodily functions. To the extent that I think I’ve never farted before a boyfriend. God help me if I ever have to live with a man. I think I might develop constipation just from that thought.
But that’s just me and my extreme shyness. I can understand the need for a small degree of openness about these things. It’s not like we should aspire to be like uptight Hollywood stars who never sweat or have a strand of hair out of place. But still. My oh my, the glee we had with those stories! The sharing! The commiseration!
Clearly there’s a market for such sharing. I’m afraid I just don’t have much to contribute though. Because, y’know, I don’t sweat/pee/poop/fart, or have any problem with my womanly bits thankyouverymuch. *blushes*