[CONFESSAY] The Devil Poops in Prada

Everybody poops. Even long-legged women wearing Comme des Garçons and Prada and silver stilettos with square emoji blocks on them. This is something you learn early on, and must navigate with grace and poor taste jokes when you work in the fashion business, in an office that is staffed predominantly with women. Fact: women in fashion eat a lot of fibrous whole grains and slurp down many a liquid lunches consisting of kale blended with pineapple, beets and hemp milk. Especially when your office is around the corner from Earth Bar. This means a lot of highly recognizable designer footwear spotted under the bathroom stall. I mean, are we going poop or shopping at Barney’s?

There are two types of women in a fashion office (and in the world, probably). The ones who use the “gen pop” bathroom, and the ones who possess the coveted “secret bathroom” key with access to the private facilities on the second floor that only the OG employees know about. I’m a public pooper, if you must know. Not as in “I poop in public,” because that’s unsanitary and impolite, but I’ll go wherever, whenever, when I have to. What I mean is, I’m not one of those neurotic types who drives fifteen minutes during their lunch break just to “seek relief” in the comforts of her own home. I don’t even like to be friends with those kinds of people. They give me anxiety with their idiosyncratic routines (or maybe I’m just jealous because I can barely figure out how to use my iPhone calendar). I, on the other hand, I’m no Finch (remember the guy from American Pie?). I’m low-maintenance gal.

But there is one thing that differentiates pooping culture in a fashion office apart from pooping culture in a law firm or non-profit or tech office. You see, when you work in a fashion office, your choice of footwear reflects on how you do business. As shallow as it may seem (and it kind of is), your aesthetic is at least a little bit directly correlated to your work ethic. Are you a tomboy in lace-up combat boots? Are you nursing a hangover in some still-dusty converse you rocked at that music festival you’re still recovering from? Are you bringing your power pump A-game and gunning for that director title? Are you a reformed punk turned corporate sellout in those Isabel Marant studs? In my world, there is no tassel loafer too embellished and no heel too high. So, what does this have to do with pooping culture? I’ll tell you what, exactly. It means that I see your platform creeper stomping around the conference room and then again, palazzos around your ankles, under the stall, trying to drown out the sound with incessant flushing. I know that tactic all too well, and while it may throw off the scent, it ain’t foolin’ no one. Also, creepers with palazzo pants? Girl, was it laundry day?

You’re probably wondering why I’m compelled to look–why I feel the need to match the strappy shoe with the noisy poo. But I honestly can’t help it. Although it’s mostly an unavoidable consequence of a restroom design flaw (can someone please tell me what architect engineered the gap between floor and stall and what purpose it serves and if he has an email address where I can send hate mail?), I have to admit that part of it is a little voyeuristic. It’s amusing to see people of power–dressed all to designer perfection–let it all hang out in the most vulnerable and human of situations. Let’s be serious: what’s more rewarding than catching your micromanaging, after-hours inbox monopolizing boss between executive meetings with a case of the runs? When you spend the better part of your day going over agendas and staring at a screen, it becomes about the small victories. Of course, it’s suddenly not quite as funny when it’s your patent oxfords in the porcelain hot seat.

I hope I didn’t mislead you to think I had some sort of solution for this predicament. The way I see it, you can either try and be discreet by skulking off to the furthest bathroom and then suspending your feet in mid-air while you do your business so that nobody identifies your footwear (I’ve done this before and bonus because it works out your core), or you can just start wearing really generic ballet flats completely devoid of personal style and personality. I guess that’s what they make Tory Burch for. Or you can just put yourself on blast like me. Brb gotta poo.