July 5, 2013 by agirlikemee
There are those moments in your life that you wish never happened. Moments that you’d gladly take back in a second if you could. Moments so embarrassing that in some way end up defining you as a person for the rest of your life. For me that moment came when I was six years old and accidentally pooped in my neighbors pool.
You remember what it was like being a kid on a summer day at the pool. You could get lost for hours in an imaginary under water world, playing games and doing tricks. It was like being transported someplace magical while all the while just being in your friends back yard. That was how it was for me that day.
We had been playing all day, and I was having a blast. My neighbors had a diving board, so we had be having a contest to see who could do the best tricks. Being the competitive girl I was, I had to win…NO.MATTER.WHAT. I could tell that I needed to go to the bathroom, but my turn was coming up and I had a killer trick ready to execute. I figured I’d do my trick and then head to the bathroom after. So I stepped up to the diving board, sprung into the air, completing this amazing (to a six year old) olympic worthy dive. And just as my body hit the water, I felt it.
Like an uncontrollable sneeze, I felt a tiny piece of poo slip out of my bum and into the pool water below. The moments before I breeched the surface to come up for air felt like an eternity. My mind was racing with thoughts as to what I should do and if anyone saw and how embarrassed I was because who poops in a pool anyway…? So I did what any logical six year old would do: I came up out of the water and immediately left for home without saying a word.
That one moment, that one humiliating moment set in motion a belief system in me that has stayed to this day. It is that being a girl can sometimes mean being ashamed of being human. Here’s what I mean. Every girl poops. We’re human, humans poop, part of nature, right? WRONG! You’d think it’d be ok in my mind to admit that I poo, but no, I can’t. Because poop is gross and stinky and if I admit that I as a girl poop then I am saying that I am gross and stinky too. Are you feeling me on this?
So this idea, this irrational feeling of disgrace over a natural part of my human existence causes me to live in shame of my body and who I really am. I mean, how many times have you as a girl launched a rancid smelly fart in public and prayed to high heaven that no one knew it was you because you would die if they did? I know I’m raising my hand on that one.
So why am I rambling on about bodily functions to you all? Here’s why..because we as girls need to learn to laugh at ourselves. I think a big part of our issues over our appearance is that we take it all way too seriously. So what if you fart? Someday you’ll get married and you can’t blame the dog or the crazy guy next to you when the room starts to stink. Someday your husband will tell you that you clogged the toilet, and you’ll have to get over it. I guarantee you when Jesus walked the earth even he pooped, and I bet you it smelled bad.
We need to remind ourselves that God made our bodies, even the stinky and occasionally humorous parts. We need to see those things and be able to laugh it off, remembering that that volcanic pimple or piece of food in the teeth or loud toot isn’t going to end our lives in some tragic and epic social suicide making us an outcast for the rest of our lives. It’s life and in life, everybody poops…even girls.
So how about we get over ourselves and try and giggle or shrug off the next time a little toot accidentally peeps it way out in front of a group of people. Show the world that you can be a woman and still be human. Show the world that you don’t have to be defined by a lack of B.O., having amazing hair, and the inability to ever go number two. Because we are more than all those things. We are more than the worlds standard of social perfection and appropriateness. We are women, we are made in the image of God, crafted in the hands of our Creator, beautiful just as we are..and yes, yes we poop.