Yesterday was December 19th and tonight I had a moment of solemn commemoration; but not for the reasons you may think.

The day did mark the end of the yearly pilgrimage to Mecca and the beginning of the celebration of Abraham’s sacrifice of the first-born son (Eid ul-Adha). Also, the day was the beginning of my two-week long vacation away from workie. (Surely, that alone is enough to submit and throw oneself upon the altar of Dionysus). Yet, I celebrate for another reason.

141 Days.

I’ll explain. On the last day of July this year, the powers that control my paycheck decided to move us from our humble location to a new office. Brand new, full of swank, two floors, four kitchens, three coffee makers, a dishwater, microwaves from the future, two computer monitors, new furniture, and hands-free faucets in the bathroom. While to date I have flirted with most of the new amenities at our cutting-edge office, there is still one thing I haven’t made use of – something I’m very proud to report but is not for the faint of heart:

No Number 2.

For some reason, I have always had this mild paranoia regarding the use public restrooms for anything other than urinating (perhaps psychosis is a better word). As a result, since moving to the new location and making a willing effort, it has been 141 consecutive days without having to drop the kids off at the office pool. That has to be some kind of Guinness World record.

Now, some of you may be grimacing in disbelief, or even disgust, but I assure you the fact is true. I’ll admit, there were some days at 4pm where circumstances had me tempted by those Porcelain Sirens, my insides churning with wanton anticipation. Yet, I resisted, took the uncomfortable 8 minute subway ride home, and proceeded to export my cigars for shipment in the comfort of home.

For the most part, however, I’ve managed to trick my body into accepting this different cycle. I’ve reverse regulated my bowels. The majority of people I’ve spoken to about this phenomenon (which makes for great wine conversation) have their “regular cycles” sometime in the morning. 10 – 11 am seems really popular, which makes a trip to the office Hershey factory an ordinary, involuntary part of one’s routine. Somehow, my body has adapted to my psychological anomalies and managed to create for me a system in which I can comfortably avoid having to test the plumbing between the hours of nine and five.

Because, let’s face it, public washroom usage is a hassle. I’ve never been able to comfortably make eye contact with someone (let alone say “hello”) before proceeding into a bathroom stall. For girls, it’s a slightly different beast because you can feign having to pass water, but for guys, everyone knows why you’re in a stall. Which means timing, deception, and disappointment come with the territory. Murphy’s fucking law. It’s inevitable.

A peek into my psychosis prior to my 141 days of freedom:

It’s the morning on some auspicious day and my bowels are urging me to release the hounds. I get out of my chair and head to the bathroom inconspicuously. I open the door and aim for a stall only to realize that a coworker is washing their hands. I nod in recognition, immediately change course by making a sharp left and hit the standing urinals. I shouldn’t have to point out that I don’t have to pee – I’m biding my time until this potential witness leaves. After his departure, I zip-up and head for a stall. Before I can reach for the door, someone else strolls in and ends my shot at anonymity. The tiptoe continues as I twirl away from the stall to wash my hands and exit. No reason to get frustrated, I’ll try again in 10 minutes.

This time I’m lucky and no one is in the washroom. What’s more, no one saw me go in and thus there’s no chance anyone can (consciously or unconsciously) time how long I’ve been tucked away in the loo. I go first into my preferred stall but notice it has been abused and is running low on toilet paper – this forces me to change stalls and settle. Once inside, I carefully tear away a makeshift toilet paper seat cover and proceed to sink the Bismark. Halfway into the deed, as luck would have it, another soul enters. I draw my feet closer to the toilet hoping that my identity is not revealed through a casual glance at my shoes under the stall door. Thankfully, after a quick use of the urinal, they wash their hands and leave.

At this point, feeling I can comfortably finish, another obstacle walks in. God, who up to this point was laughing with me, is now laughing at me. Someone with a heavy step trots through and throws themselves upon the stall next to me, unabashed. Not two seconds go by and he’s filling the unventilated room with a cough-inducing odor, the result of a poor decision to go with spicy Indian last night. What to do? On the one hand, I can wait for him to finish. On the other hand, I can speed things up and attempt to escape before he’s done. I decide for the former, which turns out to be a bad idea. After he’s left, I get up to exit and open the stall door. I should mention at this point that while I have in the past been prone to hyperbole, this time I am not kidding: my boss walks in. He notices me getting out of the stall, and by his twitching nose, also notices the whiff of unpleasantness my gastronomically challenged coworker left behind. Naturally, he assumes the odors bothering his olfactory receptors originated from my insides and gives me the most awkward nod in the history of nods. I wash my hands and leave in shameful, embarrassing shame.

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So tonight I drink champagne not for religious or secular reasons but for victory – victory in not having to be a slave to my bowel movements and the corporate bathroom procedural tip toe. One Hundred And Forty One Days Of Freedom!

(141, and counting)