Note: If you are someone who does not appreciate some over-sharing for the sake of comedy, this post is not for you.
Still with me? This is the story of the first time I pooped my pants as an adult.
I was in college, on a road trip in my best friend’s pristine Camaro with perfect leather interior. We were on our way back from her parent’s house. I’m pretty sure we had chili for lunch, but I’m not sure. It was almost a two hour drive.
About halfway through the drive, the cold sweats hit. And the bottom dropped out of the barrel. “Find a bathroom, quick,” I muttered as I clutched by stomach. “Sure, there’s a Texaco (gas station) just over this hill,” she confidently responded.
Fast forward a few minutes. Still no Texaco. I’ve now unbuckled myself as I clutch my bottom end and perform a combination of rocking and slithering in the well conditioned leather seat in an effort to find the perfect position to prevent a desaster. “No, seriously, can you just pull over here?” I beg. “The gas station is just around this corner, I promise,” she claims.
She’s now topping out at 110 mph determined to get me to this illusive gas station. “PULL OVER!” I yell in total desperation. Sweating. Cramping. PANICKING. “Just 1….more…minute,” she promises.
The Texaco! “Thank you Jesus! Thank you Jesus!” I pray out loud, still panicking. At this point, I’m not sure how I will make it out of the car without…you know. She exits at top speed and whips into the gas station.
Then we see it. A tour bus. One of those big ones that holds 300 people who are probably in a massive line for the bathroom already.
She slams on her breaks. I am out before she’s at a complete stop, leaving my door wide open as I limp-trot inside, sweat pouring off me, my hand guarding the land mine.
Once inside, I immediately know I’m right. The entire bus is in line for what appears to be one single toilet. I stay in line, rocking like a woman in labor, until my friend joins me. “Stay here,” I tell her, gesturing to my spot in line. There are at least 10 people in line in front of me. I’ve done the mathematical calculations at this point, and I know I can wait exactly 5 more seconds before eminent blast off.
“Survival mode. We are just in survival mode.” I remember reasoning with myself. Its the kind of thing you tell yourself when you are 19 years old, about to drop something so serious, and just needing some privacy to do so. I frantically walked the perimeter of the gas station. Nothing. The best I can find is a large mechanical box behind the building that will kind of hide my body while I try to salvage some sense of humanity.
No time to waste. Plant my feet. The building is to my back. I rest my right elbow on the large electrical box. Drop Trow. RELIEF. I look straight ahead and see that I am facing a beautiful small house with no fence between us. oops.
Then a car pulls up. Full of people. On the far side of the electrical box. FREEZE. Even though we are only about 12 feet apart, I’m sure that the “t-rex rule” will save me. If I don’t move. They won’t see me. It works. They go inside.
Once I’ve relieved some pressure off the tank, I’m forced to just pull. my. pants. back. on. Note: It was not a clean transaction.
I slowly go back into the gas station and take my place back in line. There are still 2 people ahead of me, and there’s a lot more work I need to do. “Please bring me some shorts and underwear from the car. any. clean or dirty, doesn’t matter.” I ask my friend. She stares at me with the most sympathetic and confused look, but heads out to the car.
Once I have some clothes, and I’m in the bathroom, I learn the most important rule of what to do when you poop your pants as an adult:
Just throw the clothes away. They will never be the same. You won’t be able to get that stain out. Just throw. them. away. (This also applies to children ).
At least we can laugh about it now.