My brother-in-law is everyone’s favorite. Babies adore him, he never gets involved in family squabbles, and he’s hilarious. He’s my husband’s little brother and he does things like draw birthday cards for his niece and nephew that they carry around until their next birthdays. He laughs at my jokes (which is an outstanding personality trait) and plays with my kids. My college friends still ask about him, and moms love him. The only time he gets mad is when someone has wronged a person he cares about. Then he can be a real asshole. That just makes the rest of us love him more.
But the reason I love him most is because he doesn’t talk about that one time.
For a few years, my oldest friend was living in the same town as my in-laws. We were in town for Christmas, and my husband, his brother, and I popped in to see this friend at her apartment. This was before my husband was my husband, and my friend and my brother-in-law had met a few times. We planned on having a few beers and some laughs.
It was a cute little place, and we were having a nice time. Some people are just easy and fun, and this tiny apartment was crammed full of four of those folks. I was a happy girl, until my tummy started to rumble. It was churning in that “it’s not super urgent, but you’re gonna need the bathroom soon” sort of way. Since my friend only had one bathroom, and it was damn near in the living room, I decided to wait till we got back to the safety of my in-laws’ three bathroom house.
As it usually is in those one bathroom situations, my gut had a different idea than my brain. It became clear that there was absolutely no way I was making another hour, and I started doing some reasoning in my head. Taking care of business around my friend was no big deal. She already knew how disgusting I was. My brother-in-law was another story. I mean, he was cool and welcoming, but maybe he was one of those guys who didn’t think girls pooped? This was stupid of me, as he has two sisters, and is definitely aware of how we girls can annihilate a bathroom.
I made my way to the bathroom, and that’s when the severity of the situation hit me. The bathroom door was propped against the hallway. It was broken, and completely unattached to the door frame. My friend laughed and gave a halfhearted apology. That bitch didn’t even feel bad that this was going to be a group poop. No door to muffle the sound or the smell. I had no choice. What was this? A frat house? I know that some of you fellas are used to stalls with no doors, but us girls are accustomed a modicum of privacy.
They tried to ignore me, but the conversation kept faltering, and bursts of laughter hit me, much in the same way that the odor must have been hitting them. This was before we had smartphones to entertain us while dropping a deuce, so all I could do was sit there and listen to the people I love laugh at me and my rotten ass. I yelled at them to shut up, but that only made them laugh harder. They finally went outside to give me some privacy, but the damage had been done.
I reemerged, sheepishly, and everyone acted cool, but no one looked me in the eye. I was ready to go. It smelled inside, and I was exhausted.
Attention single ladies: My brother-in-law is still up for grabs, and if I haven’t made it perfectly clear, he’ll put up with your shit.