For the first time EVER, I got a prize in a writing competition. I’ve been published many times and it’s SUCH a buzz when that happens. But continuously submitting to competitions crossing everything from my fingers to my legs, in the hope of winning, and never so much as hear a “ah it was great, but not this time”, can be quite demoralising.  Imagine my delight receiving the email last week from Comedy Women in Print. I DIDN’T win a cash prize, but I was one of four runners-up. I’ll take it! The lovely ladies at CWIP had asked for writers to submit their CRINGIEST of CRINGE true stories, in the form of flash writing – only 250 words. This is no easy feat. I’m a babbler at the best of times, so finding a way to tell a story about my trip to the gynaecologist in 250 words proved difficult for me.  Look at these blogs! LONG right?

Anyway, I was delighted. So, in keeping with the theme of cringe-worthy stories, I am sharing another most recent embarrassing story.  Trigger warning, if you find the topic of poo too offensive, please do not read on.

Yesterday morning I had an accident. No broken bones, no bloody nose, no pulled muscles. In a deep sleep I was, having had quite a restless night. The flight back from Romania had included a 6-hour layover in Vienna. Airports aren’t the same these days. It used to be a novelty, an exciting adventure, to go on a trip. Even if there was a layover, I’d find things to do at the airport. Seamless shopping, without the barraging of the assistants offering to help me find a bottle of whiskey in another language; bar-hopping easily, without scampering to find a seat, and a table that wasn’t sticky and gross; leisurely walking to the gate without worrying if the person who just had a coughing attack is currently infecting all 2000 people on the people mover. Nah, it’s not like the old days, is it? What’s this got to do with my accident this morning? Hey, this is NOT a flash writing competition, so indulge me!

I can, on occasion, be lactose intolerant. My bowels actually trick me from time to time into thinking that I am no longer lactose intolerant. It depends on what country I am in. Portugal and Malta? Lactose intolerant 100%. I don’t know what kind of cows they have, but their milk does not like me. Ireland? Depends. I can never be too sure. Czech Republic? Seems I am NOT lactose intolerant.

So, when my bowels convince me enough that I’m fully tolerant, I, like a fool, order the biggest, creamiest dessert, or a flat white with full fat milk, only to look like Jeff Daniels in Dumb and Dumber…remember that scene, when Jim Carey poured some eyedrops into his coffee? That was me two nights ago, in Romania. It’s the initial groan that echoes through my stomach like a muffled trumpet or the gargle of really unpleasant mouthwash that you’re not supposed to swallow.  My stomach becomes an orchestral pit of grumbling and suddenly the urge descends upon me. There’s NO stopping it – come on, we’ve all had it happen. If you haven’t, trust me, it WILL happen to you.

It’s not always about lactose mind you. I recall a time last summer when I played my first EVER (at age 50) GAA match in Prague. I was nervous. The truth be told, I was worried I’d get hurt, sensing that once I had the ball, a bunch of manic and excitable 20-year-olds would make a mad dash to retrieve the ball out of my hands. I’ve struggled with nervous energy all my life. Especially when I play squash competitions. I have a minimum of four trips to the bathroom. I can’t help it.  Sometimes, nothing comes out. Sometimes, I think my stomach just wants me to sit quietly for a while on the porcelain throne, and engage in my thoughts about the upcoming match. Better than sitting on the stadium seating, anticipating an impending explosion.

Don’t you love when I digress?

There I was during a break in the GAA games, running across the pitch with my brand-new boots (they’re for sale by the way, women’s size 7). Proudly wearing my red and white striped knee socks, and my Prague Hibernians Jersey (a far cry from the sexy squash gear I am used to wearing), the nerves had kicked in. It isn’t easy to squeeze ones bottom tightly enough to secure what’s desperately pushing to get out, whilst running across a pitch to the sound of “Orla, will ye have an apple or a banana?”.

“I would, if I was allowed to shove it up my bottom right now”. I only THOUGHT that – didn’t say it out loud.

Or maybe I did.

Anyway, mid run, or jog (I am fifty now and not as nifty as I used to be. There are jiggly bits on my jiggly bits) out it came. There’s not much one can do in this situation. One can carry on squeezing as much as possible, but there is always the question of “am I squeezing it IN, or squeezing it OUT?”. Hard to say, that is until you feel that warm sensation trickling down the inside of your thigh.

Look, I know it’s a gross subject. But it happens, as I already mentioned. Rule number 17 in writing 101 – don’t repeat yourself. I’m using poetic license here and I shall repeat – IT WILL HAPPEN TO YOU.

Back to yesterday morning. Dead sleep after the most unenjoyable trip from Romania to Vienna for a 6-hour layover and then a short hop to Prague. Two nights before, I’d indulged in the most fantastic homemade milk shake. Inside was fresh fruit from the garden; blueberries, raspberries and strawberries, all of them oozing with juiciness that would make your mouth water. Then there was the ice-cream – full fat and creamy Romanian vanilla ice-cream. She (Ms. Vanilla) was beckoning to me; knowing exactly how hot the day had been – she taunted me with her coolness breathing down my perspiring neck. Then there was the fresh, cold milk, crisp from the fridge, condensation rolling down her bottle – she was literally showing off.  And of course, the five large spoonsful of sugar, sparkling crystals just dancing in the bowl, a flirtatious glisten in their eyes just dying to be added to this delicious blended concoction.

Put it all together and what do you get? Juices oozing out my bottom is what you get….

Gross, I know.

Luckily, I made it to the loo in plenty of time, but unfortunately for me, once that happens, the underlying condition I have (Lupus), flares up and basically inflames every joint in my body. The pain is shocking. The swelling feels like my joints want to burst through my skin. I become the Michelin (wo)Man lying prone on my bed until the meds kick in. Not to mention that the stress on my body causes my hot flush to have its own hot flush. I looked gorgeous. A colossal, swollen, sweating specimen. (Say that four times quickly). Who wouldn’t want to hop in the bed beside me? Have I mentioned that I’m a terrible patient? The noises I emit are nothing short of piglets grunting when they’re hungry. It’s not attractive.

It took the guts of 12 hours to feel any better. For anyone with this ailment, that’s a pretty good recovery time. I usually bounce back quickly. But half the problem is, I think I’m better, and I get up and have a coffee or a croissant, and then major setback. This time, I behaved myself and limited myself to only dry toast. And warm 7-up. An old Irish remedy – anyone else have a Nana who insisted this was the only cure?

Knowing that I had a journey back to Prague ahead of me, I denied myself the luxurious breakfast that was on offer in Romania.  Good girl Orla, you’ll thank yourself later. I did. I thanked myself at Vienna airport by having a slice of pizza and one of my step-daughters sneaky chocolate biscuits. I must have left my brain in the toilet…

That led to yesterday morning and the ‘accident’. It woke me (and my partner) up with quite a startle. Embarrassing? Yes. Fixable? Yes. Could it have been worse? Mmm… maybe. But I’m still alive. I shed a tear uttering the words “this is what happens to OLD people”. My partner is a saint and just laughed it off, while holding her nose trying to look cool.

From my bed, I watched some of NASA’s new photographs taken on the Webb telescope. I was overwhelmed by thinking that there is so much more out there than just us, scurrying and worrying all the time. It’s time to stop scurrying and worrying. It’s time to take risks. It’s time to give up the habit (and it IS a habit) of wondering what others think about us, or our decisions. It’s time to stop giving so many fucks really. I’ve had several explosions or big bangs of my own, and not the pleasant kind filled with fantastic colours. Nobody actually cares that I shat the bed. So, I’ll leave you with the quote I chose for my writers group a few days ago.

“I want to live the rest of my life, however long or short, with as much sweetness as I can decently manage, loving all the people I love, and doing as much as I can of the work I still have to do.  I am going to write fire until it comes out of my ears, my eyes, my nose holes – everywhere.  Until it’s every breath I breath. I’m going to go out like a fucking meteor!” Andre Lorde

Let’s all go out like fucking meteors! Throw your heart and soul into your passions. Find your own creativity. It’s in there, I promise you! Thank you for reading once again and have a wonderful passion-filled week.