This afternoon, I heard a radio commercial for Water Country, the waterslide theme park located outside of Portsmouth, NH. It reminded me of a fateful trip I took to that same water park, back around 1993 or so. It was a hot, August day, and I was eagerly awaiting the annual trip to the water park. This year, I was determined to go down the Geronimo, the highest and steepest slide in the park. I have a mild fear of heights, which was much stronger when I was younger (for example, at my pre-school, there was a staircase like this that scared the bejeezus out of me, and I was so terrified of slipping and falling through the slats that the teacher would have to carry me to get me to go up or down it.) All day long, I frolicked in the wave pool and on the smaller slides until the time came to brave the Geronimo. I summoned my courage, and made my way through the line, slowly climbing up a three-story metal staircase not unlike the one that traumatized me as a toddler. Once at the top, I sat on the slide, folded my arms, crossed my legs at the ankles, leaned back, and down I went. Geronimo! It was thrilling. At the bottom of the slide, I stood up and picked my enormous wedgie. As the elation of the drop itself and the pride of my accomplishment wore off, I suddenly became aware of an uncomfortable sensation deep in my bowels, like I had to go number two. I hurried off to a restroom, sat down on the toilet, and pooed out about two liters of chlorinated pool water. Yes, I had conquered the almighty Geronimo, but I had also gotten a chlorine enema in the process.
And that’s the second grossest thing that ever happened to me.
(Reason #162 why I don’t have a boyfriend: I write about chlorine enemas on the internet.)
As for the first grossest thing that ever happened to me, I’ll never tell. Let’s just say it involved a latrine in Nicaragua, and leave it at that. And if you ever go down a really steep waterslide, in addition to crossing your legs, squeeze your buttcheeks together. Trust me.