"In the spring of 2018, my now-husband and I spent a week in Santa Monica, one of my favorite places in the world, and all I remember about the trip is my humiliating farts. Distressed digestion is nothing new to me, a member of the IBS-hot-girl legion since I was diagnosed in 2008. Perhaps because keeping my condition secret felt impossible, my romantic history is weirdly bound up in my constipation. One boyfriend introduced me to enemas — I hate to disappoint, but not in a sexual way — and another lovingly called me his “poop camel,” which I think is self explanatory. At different points, they each massaged my troublesome belly."