Hear the sound of stomach acid churning, popping, boiling guts with angry, acrid force. A fist, my fist, plunges quietly, in a nonchalant-seeming maneuver, to gently punch my stomach into obeisance. I cross my legs, lean forward interestedly, and further dig my fist into my blaspheming abdomen.
Irritable bowels.
Medical terminology normally lacks poetics, but “irritable bowels” both apt and descriptive, hits the mark. Wake them up too early, they are cranky, and in fits and starts will growl and moan about meeting the day. Give them food that is too spicy, too dairy, too food-like in quality, they become cross at your audacity. (A lady should be treated like a lady after all.) Challenge their temper, with either a melancholy mood, a loud voice, coffee too late or food too early, and they gurgle in punishment. If I knew a person as irritable, I would quickly distance myself. But as in many cases in our lives, those whom we would avoid in any other context, tend often to be those to whom our lives are inextricably linked. There can be no divorce from one’s bowels, no matter how bitchy they might become with age.
Significant moments in my life have been matched by significant altercations with my temperamental tummy. My break-up with my first boyfriend was precipitated by my raging gut. Now, to be fair, I had been coaxed into betraying my teenage vegetarianism and crossed rapidly back into carnivorism by way of a Burger King double cheeseburger. The boyfriend was ill-equipped to deal with the full-on rage of my doubled-over-in-pain intestinal reaction. Cross my belly, shame on me. Fail to coddle said belly, adios hombre.
Years ago, I found myself sitting stiffly at the funeral of a college friend. Often, in silent, inappropriate places like this, deep harmonics will begin suffusing from my abdomen. That day, the tragedy itself, seemed to have silenced the anti-social behavior of even my stomach. As tears streamed down my face, I was, for once, not focused on hushing my mid-region. Later, after the funeral, my husband and I walked along the college campus, took time to sit under a tree, then wandered into his old department. Once there, he stopped in to speak with a former professor and instead met a new faculty member. As we were introduced, my gut took this opportunity to unfold and introduced itself instead to the professor with a loud “GGRRRRRRRRRRRrrrrrrrppp” that erupted from somewhere near my belly-button. Deep, sonorous noises and lonely, plaintive sounds growled and popped from in and around my rib cage. Having observed the somber moments of the funeral, now my digestive tract was keening.
The professor gave a surprised and sporting laugh. My husband was horrified. He has been reasonably patient with my various stomach ailments in the past, but was understandably shocked by the animalistic sounds I began creating for this professor of science. Testing and surpassing all biological knowledge on their parts, my gut continued keening like a strangled, angry buffalo. I excused myself to get some water, took ten minutes at a fountain on the other end of the building, trying to drink and talk my stomach into a sedate quiet. Eventually, it relented. That is, until I rounded the corner to my husband and team of college faculty, at which, the prima donna, ever aware of an audience, once again began a fiercesome impersonation of dying beached whales, the sound somehow amplified by the ocean of water I had recently downed. This was not gas—a mere phase of matter could not produce these sounds. This was sheer gastrointestinal willpower.
My husband, having long ago learned when my stomach has won, steered us away saying he wanted to visit the music faculty as well. The professor thanked him for stopping by, and for introducing him to his wife with the musical stomach, asking if perhaps I had been a music major. Clearly, it takes training to develop an instrument such as mine.
Last week, I had a job interview. Initially, I was mildly interested in the job, but did not feel that it would be my best fit. As I began talking, I heard a familiar rumble from below the table. As my fist automatically shoved its way into my belly (with the casual gesture I have perfected), I realized, puzzled, that the beast was sleeping. As I glanced across the table (still professionally answering the posed question), I noticed the interviewer in a mirrored pose, her fist in her stomach. Sensing a kindred spirit, my own grumblly nemesis awoke, cooed irreverently, and located the same pitch as my interviewer’s IBS. The interviewer smiled slightly embarrassedly, seeming to think that her growler had just now increased in volume, unaware that I had taken up the low harmonics.
And thus, I may have found my match. Cranky stomach issues aside, I sense that working with someone with similar somatic concerns (and a same failed control over simple digestion) will prove beneficial for me. More than possessing the shared awkwardness of inappropriate bowels, there is a certain kind of affability that comes from frequent and well-timed humiliation. Job descriptions and pay scales aside, I’d much prefer to work for someone who can balance slavish bowels with grace.
