The desert is full of life lessons.
There are little lessons, like how easy it is to get irrationally angry about strange things while there’s sweat on the back of your knees and dust everywhere else (in one particularly low moment, I got mad at my sister for walking with too much confidence. Whatever that means).
And there are bigger lessons, like how it’s (apparently) possible to receive a rim job on a moving bicycle (an act that I witnessed 10 minutes into Burning Man).
But, if I had to pick just one desert lesson to bestow upon all of you — just one little Burning Man nugget — it’s how freaking great it is to poop in your own bathroom.
Like, can we just have a brief moment of silence for all of the dark moments I spent trapped in a pitch-black port-a-potty across from Spanky’s Wine Bar as the heavy bass from nearby parties vibrated through the dusty, I-hope-that’s-pee stained floor?
Now, to be fair, I can’t remember ever having a particularly wonderful port-a-potty experience (me + dark pit of despairhappy memories).
But, there was something about the Burning Man bathrooms that made my return to the faded blue walls and crusty old rug of my home bathroom a particularly emotional experience.
Maybe it was that one time that I had to cling to the door as a very drunk man (operating under the mistaken belief that a) I was his friend and b) I was hiding from him in a poorly lit port-a-potty) tried to barge into the tiny blue box housing me and an alarmingly full urinal. Or maybe it was the moment that I discovered a neatly curled turd curled on the edge of the toilet seat. Or perhaps it was looking into the black abyss of a port-a-potty hole only to see a lone green glow-stick illuminating the horrors within.
Whatever it was, whatever darkness I touched in the middle of the desert, it made me see my home bathroom through new eyes.
And so, naturally, I wrote a haiku about it:
Quilted paper, working fan/
Bring my bowels joy.