I never knew how important you would be to me when I first purchased you in that fluorescent-washed supermarket. I saw you: green with white polka-dots, foldable, and with a handle in the middle so I could carry you anywhere. It wasn’t as though I had any intentions of lugging you around with me, but I’m a sucker for potential pragmatism.
For weeks I didn’t know quite where to keep you, and that’s how you ended up in the bathroom. You were a floor item for the kitchen, and the bathroom was close-by. Leaning you against the wall, just inside the door and next to the toilet, was an easy answer to my problems. There you lay, rounded edges and lightweight, being put to use only when I didn’t feel I could make the jump to the highest shelf.
Until I read an interesting headline from my social media scrollings: Squatty Potty Encourages Return to Anatomic Pooping. Maybe that wasn’t the exact title, but I was intrigued nonetheless. Reading through the article, it became immediately clear that this was one of those crazy consumerist plugs for products a person doesn’t really need. The lack of versatility of this creation was astounding. A plastic stool shaped to the base of your toilet bowl to allow you to bend your knees and open your digestive tract to a porcelain abyss? I very rarely am willing to buy an item that only has one use, even if it will improve the connection of my daily activities to the natural inclinations of my body. As an avid outdoors-pooper, though, I could sense the value of this invention. I mean, at least it could increase awareness of the bowel-ease I, and many like me, experience in our multi-day outdoor excursions.
It wasn’t until the next morning--after my coffee--that I made the connection. Sitting on our pathetic rental throne, I glanced to my right and noticed you. My practical beauty. My handled warrior. My emerald stool originally intended for kitchen-use. I grabbed you by the handle--designed to the contours of my four fingers--and released you in front of me. I raised my knees nearly to my chin and placed my feet upon your surface, an act I had done on multiple-occasions but never while sitting.
The effect was immediate. To keep things from getting too graphic, let’s just say the hose of my insides released its kink and the contents were free to flow. On that day, I christened you my Stool Stool (patent pending). I swear by you, at least when I’m at home, and when you aren’t around I suffer greatly. At times the desperation culminates into strange acrobatics, my feet pushed against the walls of a public stall, though usually I just keep your spirit in my thoughts with a small crunch.
You came with me to my new apartment and you live in the same place: to the right of the toilet and, if you’re walking into the bathroom, left of the doorway. You’re a comfort on most days; I know you’re there when my morning breakfast is washed down by my coffee. On others you’re a tease; some mornings my body is too anxious or distracted to complete its cycle at the right time.
But no matter what, you’re my Stool Stool (patent pending), and you will remain close to my heart (and toilet) until you become so decrepit, so rickety, and so well-used it is time to find a suitable substitute.