I wish I could say that I wasn’t preparing my body for a couple of gastrointestinal procedures this afternoon, but that I was doing something far less mundane, something perhaps akin to preparing myself for intergalactic flight, or acclimatizing my body for a one-on-one battle with a creature that feeds off of the fecal matter resting, floating, swishing and swaying through my bowels.
But that’s just crazy.
I am going in for a couple of banal gastrointestinal procedures. I did put nothing in my system all of yesterday but allowable liquids and laxatives to make my innards nice and clean and shiny and pink. I did sit on the pot all of last night, every 30 minutes or so, the result of which a reverberation of liquid striking liquid, and the putrid, lingering aroma of a bowel, cleaned.
And I am very much aware that I am glamorizing, perhaps even romanticizing, the time leading up to what will undoubtedly be a routine endoscopy and colonoscopy; the prospect of which is less than pleasant.
Can you blame me? I mean, did I not say that I am going to the poop doctor?
So I sit, growling tummy and mind in a loopy, fervent stupor, and I wait for the intergalactic battle to come.
It’s going to be out of this world.