Whenever I travel outside of New England, my body forgets how to poop. It sucks, of course, but it wouldn’t suck nearly as much if — when I finally do remember  — my body didn’t then forget to do this other thing, too. This way more important other thing.

Two summers ago my cousin Petey and I visited our friend Will and his family at their condo in a resort in Puerto Rico. There are a few things you should know.

1. I’d never met Will’s parents before.

2. Will’s parents were adults.

3. I’d only met Will’s girlfriend once.

4. Will’s girlfriend was a real hip art student.

5. Other than meeting strangers, the things that make me most nervous/weird/mute are adults and hip art students and my obvious inferiority t0 them.

The resort this group of superior humans and I stayed at was redinky donky. It had the amenities you’d expect, like beaches and restaurants and pools, and the amenities you might not expect, like a casino and a golf course and a water park. The only thing missing was a pooping conducive crapper.

Actually, dat ain’t true. The condo had three perfectly functioning toilets; one for Will’s parents, one for Will and Petey, and one for Will’s boo and me. I, on the other hand, didn’t even have one perfectly functioning shiz system. In fact, my shiz system wouldn’t function at all.

I went three days with no number twos. On the fourth day, I knew I had to take action. Although I’d never really had issues with pooping before, I was familiar with the latest crap-coaxing technologies. I needed to drink water, eat fruits and vegetables, exercise, and stay away from binding foods like cheese. I got to it (secretly — I didn’t want all those cool strangers to know I had a backed-up booty).

After five days of babying my bowels, I finally managed a turd or two. I don’t know if I got distracted by my success or I was too physically exhausted to be bothered or I was subconsciously showing off. I just know I forgot to flush.

My turd or two sat in that toilet for a couple of hours.

Now, I already mentioned that Will’s lady and I shared our own bathroom. What I didn’t mention, though, was that ours was the only one that wasn’t totally private; it was connected to the rest of the house, too. I like to believe no one else saw it — mostly because when I went back later for a run-of-the-mill pee, it was still bobbing around like dook do. I also like to believe no one smelled it, but since the bathroom was right next to the kitchen, someone probably did.

At least they didn’t think I had a backed-up booty.