The Day I Mistook Laxatives for Breath Mints

A Hilarious Journey That Started with Fresh Breath and Ended in a Public Restroom

Let me start by saying I have a very delicate relationship with public restrooms. I avoid them the way a cat avoids water — with calculated elegance and deep suspicion. So, the fact that this story ends in one, with me clinging to a toilet seat like it was a life raft, should tell you everything you need to know about how terribly my day went.

It all began with a lunch date. Not a romantic one, sadly — just a work lunch with my boss, Mr. Pringle, who believes eye contact and chewing are mutually exclusive activities. I'd eaten something garlicky the night before and, despite brushing twice, still felt like my breath could peel paint. I grabbed a tin of mints from my coworker Linda’s desk on my way out.

“Mind if I take a couple?” I called over my shoulder. She waved distractedly, mid-phone call. If I had stopped to read the label, or if Linda had bothered to turn around and say, “Wait, those aren’t mints!” we could’ve avoided what I now refer to as “The Digestive Disaster of Downtown Deli.”

I popped two in my mouth. They tasted faintly of mint, with a chalky aftertaste I attributed to the fact they were probably cheap. No big deal.

By the time we reached the deli, I felt confident. Breath: fresh. Outfit: stain-free. Nervous system: calm. I was ready to impress. Mr. Pringle was halfway through a story about his bonsai tree’s emotional journey (don’t ask) when my stomach made a sound like a dying whale.

At first, I thought it was a fluke. Maybe hunger. I sipped some water, smiled, nodded. Then it came again — louder. A bubbling, churning noise that made Mr. Pringle pause and tilt his head like a curious golden retriever.

“You alright?” he asked.

“Stomach’s just saying hi,” I joked, trying to deflect with a laugh.

Then the cramping began.

Not your ordinary, "oops, I ate too fast" kind of discomfort. This was medieval. Like my intestines were being used as a tug-of-war rope between rival demons. I tried to maintain composure, but my forehead began to bead with sweat and my back stiffened like I was bracing for impact.

I scanned the deli for the restroom. There it was: past the counter, a door with a crooked sign that said “Employees Only (But We Don’t Care).” That sounded like permission to me.

“Excuse me for a moment,” I said, rising with what I hoped looked like casual elegance but probably resembled a wind-up robot low on battery.

The moment I stepped into that bathroom, my soul left my body.

I’ll spare you the full play-by-play, but let’s just say my legs went numb at one point. The kind of experience that makes you reconsider all your life choices — including the one where you stole mystery mints from Linda.

Between waves of internal betrayal, I pulled out my phone and texted her:

ME: “What kind of mints were those???”

LINDA: “What are you talking about?”

ME: “The tin on your desk!”

LINDA: “OMG. You took those? Those are fiber laxatives! My doctor gave them to me!! I only take one a day!!! 😳😳😳”

Let me just pause to acknowledge that in that moment, I understood true regret. The kind of regret that echoes through generations.

Twenty-five minutes later, pale and broken but slightly wiser, I emerged from the bathroom. Mr. Pringle was sipping his iced tea and scrolling his phone.

“You alright?” he asked again.

I considered telling him the truth, but how do you explain something like that with dignity? You don’t. So, I just smiled.

“Food didn’t sit right,” I mumbled.

He nodded, completely unfazed. “Yeah, their potato salad’s risky.”

I nodded like that was it. The potato salad. Not the fact that I had essentially ingested two digestive grenades and detonated them in my colon.

The ride back to the office was silent, except for my stomach, which by now sounded like an old washing machine filled with marbles. I made it home early, blaming it on “something I ate” — technically not a lie — and collapsed on the couch, clutching a heating pad and whispering promises to never steal again.

By the next day, my body had forgiven me, but my coworkers had not. Linda had told everyone. They now referred to me as “Minty Fresh” behind my back — or to my face if they were bold.

On the plus side, I no longer suffer from any form of digestive irregularity. I am, for all intents and purposes, cleansed.

And you know what? There’s something strangely freeing about a mistake so embarrassing that nothing else can top it. It becomes your worst-case scenario, and once you’ve lived through it, nothing scares you quite the same.

Except maybe Linda’s desk drawer. I don’t go near it anymore.

Moral of the story?

Always read the label. Always ask twice. And for the love of your intestines, never assume a mint is just a mint.