I was sat on the toilet, wiping, and it occurred to me that one day I will do this for the last time.
That’s not a prediction, it’s a fact. Either I will die before I become incapable of wiping, or I will eventually be too old and weak to do it for myself. Or maybe a serious injury will mean someone else has to wipe for me. Whatever happens, I can’t go on wiping my arse forever, and I’m not sure why, but the thought of that proper bummed me out. Pardon the pun.
Or don’t pardon it. I don’t really care. I don’t know what pardoning does. I know presidents can pardon criminals, maybe they can pardon puns too. Hopefully one day a president pardons all puns at once, and then we won’t have to say pardon the pun after we do a pun anymore.
Anyway – wiping my arse.
I like to use three sheets at a time and fold them into one. I know people are starving in this world and the trees and global warming and all that, but it’s just a luxury I have to take. We all have our vices. I couldn’t wipe one square at a time, it’s too flimsy, even when you’re using three-ply toilet paper. But when you turn that three-ply into a nine-ply, now we’re talking, baby!
I feel in the moment when I’m wiping. Wipe, check and repeat. It’s a simple process, but one that requires concentration. I find it difficult to be depressed or anxious or lonely or anything when I’m on the loo. I just am.
It’s restorative. I’m grateful when I need to poop because I know how nice a toilet break is. And for me, it’s the solitude that makes it. The outside world is gone. The more I think about it, the more I realise there’s two Erics. There’s me off the toilet, and me on the toilet. I could be having the most stressful day, but as soon as I flip that lid up and rest my bumcheeks on that seat, I’m totally serene.
If I do get to the stage where a nurse has to do it for me, then that’s all taken away from me. I’ll lose the two worlds. There’ll just be one continuous Eric. It’s a horrible thought.
For now, I’m gonna enjoy my wiping while I still can, and I’m no longer gonna take it for granted. While I can still wipe, I can still hold onto the idea that things will get better.
For is there anything more human than wiping your arse? It symbolises our condition for me. We’re dirty. We’re vile, disgusting, dirty creatures. And the dirt will keep on coming. But we have it within us to make ourselves clean again, to fix ourselves. Until one day we won’t be able to fix ourselves any longer.
Anyway, that’s about it.
Cya x
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