I have never been accused of being “cheap” per se. I do buy nice things. Things that will last. It just makes more sense to me to buy one thing that lasts a long time instead of buying the same low-quality item over and over again. While this is true, I definitely try to cut costs when I can. I tend to wait a long time on every single purchase. My Amazon cart is full of 35 such items, items that I just don’t know if I really want yet.

A couple weeks ago I attended the wedding of my friends Adam and Emily. I am not sure exactly when the splitting of a hotel room becomes socially unacceptable, but for the wedding I split a room for the weekend with three other people. Why spend 230 if I can knock it down to 57.5? I thought. This line of thinking was not born out of cheapness – I just thought I could get 173 dollars worth of enjoyment in other ways. What I failed to include in my calculations was the pleasure I find in being able to breathe.

One of the balancing acts of sharing living space is the use of the bathroom. The normal constraints all apply — we all need to shower regularly, we all need to dispose of bodily waste in a hygienic manner, we all need to spend hours fixing our hair. With a hotel however, these normal uses behave like they are on HGH; we all feel extra dirty from travel, we spend little time at the hotel so bathroom usage is concentrated and finally, all of our normal routines are upset; we eat different foods, we are stressed from being in different surroundings and our GI track responds accordingly.

So on this recent trip, splitting a room with 3 other adults created quite the delicate situation. There were two males and two females. Apparently, the two females smelled of roses every day of their lives, while at least one of the males pretty much farted constantly (Note: I was not the constant farter, although I definitely contributed occasionally on that front.). I was intimidated into pooping down stairs, in the main floor bathroom, so as not to offend the sensitive olfactory senses of the ladies. This made my tragedy all the more lamentable — it need not have happened.

On the final morning, we went about our normal procedures — girls in the shower, followed by breakfast. We returned to the room and I immediately hopped into the shower. I shampooed my hair and moved on to my arms and chest when I heard the door open. I paused mid-lather, in confusion.

“Hello?”

Laughter answered. Male laughter.

Matt.

Matt, who had broken wind, and my nostrils, countless times already that weekend.

“I have to poop man!” He tried to defend himself.

“Whatever! The steam will intensify it! This room is tiny!” I screamed in frustration. I was naked after all, so my options for defense were rather limited. I began throwing water over the shower curtain.

More laughter.

He flushed.

“Sorry man! I had to go!”

I finished my shower.

I opened the curtains. A soup like mixture of steam, dove body wash and foul human excrement met me. It enveloped me and penetrated, coating nose, mouth, lungs.

I gagged.

My stomach churned.

I grabbed two towels and dashed out of the bathroom, slamming the door behind me.

My dripping, naked body was greeted by the intense laughter of my three hotelmates. Pleas of innocence fell soundless on my ears. There was simply no way that The Farter would even attempt that stunt without the encouragement of my other two “friends”.

After toweling off and dressing in the hallway, I walked over to look at my 3 ex-friends.

“Well. That was horrible.” I deadpanned. “And I hate you.”

“But it could have been worse. He could have poked his ass past the shower curtains and deuced in the tub.”

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