Lunch Ladies

As most of you know by now, I rejoined the workforce and    normal-pant-wearing society about a month ago, when I took a grown up job. No drawstring flannel allowed, true, but coming to an office has its perks. Like, they pay me to be here. And like a genuinely lovely group of women to work with every day. I’ve dubbed my aisle of cubes Sorority Row; there are a dozen or so smart, sharp, strangely attractive girls in my immediate vicinity, and I get to admire the pretty high heels sadly missing when my office was the dining room table and my coworkers were my dad and the bunny killer.

There are downsides, though, I do have to say. Having spent the past few years out of the general public (not quite recluse status, but significantly more than the average girl’s allotted time in pajama bottoms), I’d forgotten -- if I’d ever known, I blocked it out -- about the frightening trend running through the intestinal systems of young office-working girls everywhere.

Today, having lunch in the cafeteria with some of my sparkly new friends, the conversation naturally (?) turned to having to use a public restroom when you have to... you know. You know.

“I never do. I can’t.” The Funny One.

“But what if you have to? I mean, come on, sometimes you have to.” The Tiny One.

“How is that possible, exactly? How do you... hold back?” The Baby One.

“Well, I’ll tell you,” explains TFO, helpfully. “You just close your eyes for a few seconds, squeeze everything, and wait. Eventually the feeling passes.”

She looked at us expectantly, waiting for the agreeable nods that show a speaker her audience is with her, understanding and commiserative. I was fascinated -- by her willpower, her freakish muscular control, and the very fact that these delicate, ladylike girls were in fact having an in depth conversation -- at the lunch table -- about crap.

“So, if you wait long enough, it just goes away? Like hunger pains?” The Blonde One.

“Exactly like that.”

“But... I mean, that’s just like... it’s like... Pooperexia.” Me, just trying to take it all in.

Mind you, we are the only table of girls in the entire cafeteria. The IT guys (who will tell you they “play cards” at the same table every day, very manly like. Look closer. Those are Uno cards, man.) turned to stare. The Analyst guys (not a one of them outside the khaki Dockers and bland plaid button down uniform they’ve so perfected) did the same. Part of it was, as I said, we’re the only girls in the room and those boys are genuinely struggling with feelings of fascination and fear to begin with. The other part of it was probably the loud shrieking sound I make when I really get to laughing. And believe me, I was laughing. She’s not called The Funny One for nothing.

And the bad thing is I was laughing so hard -- that squealing, snorty, red-faced, ugly kind of laughing -- that it made me, I mean, kind of, I sort of had to... you know.