My wife was completely perplexed. When she explained her view, I was equally bewildered. Each of us felt a little unsure of what the other was saying. We accused each other of dishonesty.
“Are you serious?”
“Are you serious?”
Awkward laughs were exchanged, tempers nearly unfurled. We needed to clear the air.

Never in my life have I watched another person go through the entire process of defecating in a toilet. My wife, an unabashed urinator, is unreasonably sheepish about sharing her rather neutral-smelling bowel movements. Movies, while showing people in various phases of evacuation, rarely hold the shot long enough to capture someone finishing the job. Therefore, I assumed that everyone adhered to the following protocol:
1) poop
2) stand up
3) either face the toilet or crane the neck to peer inside the bowl
4) behold the character of one’s waste products
5) wipe and otherwise clean/dry the anus
6) assess the quantity and moisture of each wipe until dry
7) pause before flushing
8) flush

My wife, then my girlfriend, filled with incredulity, waited until the act was complete before weighing in on my technique. She was instinctively disgusted by one particular aspect of my technique. She noted that, upon standing, there is a moment of friction which would exacerbate the filthy situation between my cheeks. I considered this point and assented. She informed me that her preferred style employs a simple lift of the right cheek, under which she delicately slips a tufted palm. She declines to inspect the appearance of an average specimen and reported an uncomplicated history with this routine.

She went on to insist that I basically invented my own way of taking a crap. Flattered but unconvinced, I conferred with my sister and learned that there is something of an active debate on the subject.

One piece of evidence working against my assumption is the mechanism behind automated toilets. Since their inception, I was baffled that the flush was triggered by merely standing up. This forces me to either leave a soggy, tangled layer of used toilet paper or push a small button pickled in bacteria in order to flush twice. Of course, I could also wave my hand in front of the sensor, but why waste another four gallons to wash down a handful of paper.

As emergency room nurses, my wife and I frequently ask our patients about the nature of their excrement or, in proper medical parlance, “stool.” Loose? Watery? Clay-colored? Tarry? Was there blood in the water, in the stool, or on the paper? These are pertinent clinical inquiries, all of which require active vigilance of the patient.

Some people reply that they did not notice the precise changes that brought them to the emergency room. This answer confuses but also frustrates me by its bald lack of curiosity. Why would you pay to complain to a trained professional about your stomach hurting before looking at your poop?

Perhaps I have a preternatural appetite for data concerning my bodily functions. Certainly, no one has ever insinuated that I allow selfishness, ignorance, or propriety to suppress frequent public disclosures of my digestive affairs. While I could expound upon this subject till kingdom come, at the heart of this debate are evolved habits learned from one’s parents. Your technique is a variation on a theme, like Beethoven teasing out the intricate, baroque subtexts of “God Save the Queen.” I am sure that my parents stand after crapping, though each subsequent action listed above may not perfectly mirror their own.

(Humorous aside: My wife tells me her father, in his younger days, stood on the rims of gas-station toilets in order to drop poops. He was raised in Peru, where public facilities are often holes in the ground, illustrating the sophisticated, developed world-only nature of this discourse.)

The mere existence of this article amply demonstrates the novelty of this question in my life. Perhaps I would sleep more comfortably at night if I knew the exact proportion of “standers” and “sitters.” Let’s all do our part to drag this subject into the light of day. Or you can leave the stall door open the next time you shit in an Arby’s.

Miami-raised Jimmy Tracy farts a ton, mostly where he now lives, in Washington, D.C.