Last night before drifting off to sleep I asked Jon to check and see who was winning the game between the Red Sox and Yankees. We happened to turn the channel to Fox just a few moments before the end of the game, and you could feel the tension and the anticipation: it shot out of the television and filled the room.
That’s when I turned to Jon and said, “I can’t watch this. It will totally make me constipated.”
“It won’t make you constipated. Stop it,” he said. “Watch this with me. This is history!”
“History makes me constipated.”
“Everything makes you constipated. Watch. Watch!”
And then the Red Sox won and the gushing relief washed over my body, and I turned over and fell asleep confident that tomorrow I would poop.
Thank you, Red Sox. Today I pooped.