Sex, poop, and intimacy.

The state of a nation can be easily measured by the questions sent to its advice columnists.

For instance, the Who’s News feature which is a semi-regular feature on the Admin Worm blog is culled directly from the pages of USA Weekend. It never ceases to amaze me that whatever is occurring in the world—war, famine, hurricanes—there is never a shortage of people whose greatest worry is whether George Clooney intends to direct some day.

This morning was the piece de resistance of advice columns. The Advice Diva in the St. Paul Pioneer Press is dealing with fallout for her earlier advice to a female writer who expressed concern that she was about to take the first weekend trip of a new relationship, and was mortified at the thought that she might actually have to poop during the trip. “How do I deal with it? What if he finds out I poop? What if he breaks up with me?”

What’s particularly disheartening is not just the question, but the answer provided. The Advice Diva recommended any number of “covers,” including scoping out public restrooms in the vicinity, wedging a towel between the bottom of the bathroom door and floor to contain the scent: anything to avoid letting the cat out of the bag that she is a human being who ingests food then must dispose of the remnants.

This flabbergasts me for any number of reasons. First, I’m apparently alone in the world feeling quite sad that certain behaviors are a given in relationships these days. The Advice Diva speaks very matter-of-factly about “the jitters of sharing a hotel room (with a new partner) for the first time.” This is all part of our society’s insistence that nothing be off-limits, or God forbid reserved for a marriage (shudder). Let high school lovers stay in a hotel on prom night; if the kids are going to have sex, they should do it at home where they're "safe;" as long as they're protected with a condom, no worries. Sex is, after all, merely a physical act.

Someone very close to me told me that it’s not uncommon for people to share a bed after only a week of dating nowadays. This floored me. Yes, it’s positively Victorian of me, but I personally feel there should be some sort of “phone number memorization rule” before engaging in such an intimate act with someone.

People argue that you wouldn’t purchase a car without test-driving it first, but that contention must be qualified. For instance, if you’re finally in the market for a $75,000 Jaguar, you might resign yourself to the possibility that another serious customer been behind the wheel. However, you would think twice about purchasing the car if you discovered 300 miles on the odometer, and the salesperson told you that neighborhood teenaged boys had taken regular joyrides in it.

The other thing that really bothers me about the Advice Diva’s response is the mixed message it sends. Think about it. On one hand, the woman writing the letter is so comfortable with this person that she’s intimate with them, meaning the most private of her parts are regularly exposed to the gentleman in question. On the other hand, she’s embarrassed beyond comprehension that he may discover the orifice he’s poking around is used for its intended purpose.

This is akin to an argument used frequently by pro-choice folks about teens and sex. Teenagers are apparently embarrassed to go to the pharmacy and purchase condoms; therefore abortion must remain safe and legal “just in case.” Let me get this straight: you’re perfectly fine with a hormonally-charged 16 year old boy, whose name you barely know, sniffing around your crotch like a mongrel dog, but you’re mortified at the prospect of purchasing from a licensed professional a product that will not only prevent pregnancy, but possibly save your life? Further, we're to accept that it's less of an affront to your dignity to undergo invasive surgery than to plop five bucks on the counter and say "Condoms, please"? And finally, if the maturity level of the persons involved is not adequate to cause them to take precautions, perhaps someone close to one or both could gently suggest that they're not ready to take the step.

Part of my new lease on life is trying not to point the finger of judgment. The downside of this is it lends itself to sadness rather than anger. It just makes me plain sad that we’ve become a nation where the most physically and emotionally intimate act imaginable is seen as no more sacrosanct than dropping trow and taking a leak on a camping trip. People who barely know each other traverse the hurdle of awkward conversation by immediately leaping into bed, and this is frequently mistaken for love. And that’s understandable: when sex is done “right,” for lack of a better term, it strengthens the bond between a man and woman; hopefully a husband and wife. Who wouldn’t feel remarkably close to someone if, after only one week, they’re comfortable enough to “make love”? As I’ve witnessed in the lives of countless people around me, however, the initial euphoria is quickly replaced by disappointment. Soon the intimacy digresses to pure physicality, and the relationship quickly burns out. Years of seeking true love often result in a person feeling even more alone, and what’s more having a lot of explaining to do with the person they finally settle down with.

A little advice for the Advice Diva: take the high road and assume, just for a lark, that the majority of newspaper readers are more mature than you give them credit for. Perhaps a weekend trip should be reserved for after the moment the couple is able to look into each other’s eyes and admit that “I poop.” Rather than recommend coy means by which the young lady can mask the fact that she is a biological creature, say something to embolden her to look her lover in the eye and say “If you’re willing to engage in an act which will bond us emotionally and physically, an act which could result in the creation of life or any number of diseases, then you should be mature enough to accept the fact that my body, as attractive as it may be to you, also produces substances and smells you would find repugnant.” Whether the result is acceptance or rejection, the young lady is much better off for it. Better to find someone who accepts her for who and what she is than do everything possible to fashion herself into a Stepford Wife.