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You did!

Hello! I just got a notice from Google photos about a new memory, from three years ago. A picture of my kid at the Hall of Science, which could have been sweet except she had to poop so bad, but was refusing to poop—on principle, really, because poop is gross.

Fair. She’s never been big on poop. Me, either. I have ulcerative colitis—I wrote about this for O magazine a few years ago, what?—so my rapport with poop is complicated at best.

Ahahahaha, you’re reading about poop. Which is funny unless you have IBD—I love that it has its own acronym, which is affirming and also bloodless: ironic since Irritable Bowel Disease is all about the blood, the humors, the essence of the corporeal at war with itself—but I digress.

In sum, hi from a middle-aged white lady with little to deploy in the way of emotional defense than levity and a colostomy bag. Minus the bag. I dread the bag!

Ever wonder why oxygen bags don’t inflate on an airplane? Wouldn’t it be more reassuring if they did? A friend posed this question of me once. I have no answers for her.

Tune in next time for no answers.