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“No, don’t! I’ll call 911. Don’t come here!”
No reply. He hung up.
Growling in frustration, I click the help button again.
A sound resembling a dial tone emanates from the phone once more, but when I wait and wait, it doesn’t connect anywhere.
Maybe I can call him directly?
Sure. Just as soon as I magically figure out what his cell phone number is. Unless… maybe Sandra knows?
Ugh, no. I don’t want her involved. She’ll either have a heart attack from thinking the project has gone awry, or from laughter when she learns what’s happened.
How does the Impaler even know where I live? Did the app access the work phone GPS, or did he simply take a look at my employee file?
Anyway, the how is not important. The fact that he’s going to be here is. It’s bad enough he overheard the whole “squirrel in my butt” conversation with Ava—a fact that makes me want to crawl into a ditch and die. If he comes here and needs to rescue my ass—literally—I might just melt from mortification.
There’s only one thing to do.
I must poop out the squirrel.
Having a clear-cut goal feels good, so I cautiously stand up.
Still no abdominal pain, so that’s good. Unfortunately, the squirrel doesn’t start moving down with the pull of gravity—on some level, I was hoping it might.
Fine.
I shuffle to the bathroom with a stiff gait. So this is why they call this style of locomotion “having something stuck up the butt.”
I get on the toilet and wait.
Nothing happens.
I strain.
Nada.
After a few minutes of pointless waiting, I recall Ava talking about fiber. Getting up, I stiffly shuffle into the kitchen and grab an apple.
Crunching it, I return to my white throne.
Nope.
Oh, who am I kidding? I know fiber needs more than minutes to do its thing.
Getting up, I try pacing the apartment.
Doesn’t help.
I roll out my yoga mat and do a Standing Forward Bend.
Not even a little stomach cramp.
Doing other poses doesn’t work either—neither the Downward-Facing Dog, nor the Triangle, nor the Seated and Supine Twists.
Monkey watches me do all this with an unreadable expression.
“Don’t judge,” I tell her and prepare for the big guns: the Wind-Removing Pose, where you’re on your back and your knees touch your chest.
