Sometimes in this world there are things that happen–things that are so insane they have to be true because no person on the planet could make up such a tale. This happens to be one of those stories. This is my story of the day I shit my pants for 30 miles.
On this particular day, Trey and I had been invited to eat at a local Hibachi restaurant by his parents. I love food, but I really love free food; so even though I had a terrible sinus infection, I was bound and determined to get my grub on. I enjoy the food at Hibachi places, but I hate the atmosphere. Most of your time is spent pretending that you give a damn about the spinning spatula and knife when all you really want is the little onion volcano. Also, talking to your friends and family is almost impossible because of the insistent clank clank from the chef. The meal is spent in silence, praying that your eyebrows aren’t burnt off in a Hibachi fire mishap. I ordered the steak (medium) and shrimp, enjoyed my meal, and said goodbye. It was now time to drive the 30 miles back home.
At this time I lived in Wickliffe, Kentucky, which was my personal hell. It takes the middle of nowhere to a whole new level. The roads to get there are narrow and winding, there are no places to pull over, and no businesses for almost a full 30 miles. A local plant causes the town to smell of cooked broccoli; the locals say that it’s a smell you get used to. The locals are liars. The smell gets into your clothes and covers and more than once I woke up gagging because of the smell. The only thing about Wickliffe that I liked was that Trey was located there; otherwise, I wouldn’t have acknowledged the town’s existence. I started driving home and noticed a little gurgle in my stomach. The gurgle was small so I ignored it and continued on with my drive.
There is a point of no return when driving to Wickliffe from Paducah. Once this literal fork in the road happens it is easier and safer to continue on; it was at this fork that the next grumble took place. This gurgle was louder and more insistent. A third gurgle followed. “Okay, just keep driving, Heather. No big deal. You can make it.” I told myself. My stomach was quickly tied in knots. The gurgles were now on top of each other and I had begun to sweat.
“Just hold on Heather.”
I tighten my butt cheeks.
“This is going to happen.” my inner voice says.
“No. No. I can hold it.” I respond.
I tighten my butt cheeks a little more.
“This clenching is impossible to maintain.” the inner voice taunts.
I had now straightened out my legs in an attempt to increase the resolve of my cheeks. I was sweating, profusely. The back of my hair was wet, yet I was cold all over. I was fighting a good fight and bound to win this battle of digestive wills. With one foot pressed to the floor and the other on the gas, I drove straight legged as fast as I could. The curvy road stretched out in front of me and I drove faster and faster. I turned down the radio because I needed nothing to interfere with driving and butt clenching.
“Okay, I have this.” I thought.
With the next terrible burst of pain I knew that I didn’t have this. My body gave out and I pooped my pants. The pain relief was immediate and welcome, but now I had to drive for 15 more miles with a load in my pants. I had not yet relaxed my body and my legs trembled with the pressure. If I relaxed them I would be actually sitting in my own poop and that was not something I was ready for just yet. While the horror of my predicament dawned on me, I was seized by another violent stomach cramp and I pooped my pants again. This time my legs gave out and my body relaxed. I was sitting in my own waste with 10 miles still to go.
My car now made Wickliffe smell pleasant, and with each curve my Maxima took, there was an audible slosh. Again my stomach cramped and again I pooped. Three times in less than 30 minutes, but at this point I was too exhausted to fight. I had been defeated by my own bowels. I drove in silence and formulated a new plan. Trey had left only a few minutes after me and there was no f’ing way I was letting him know this had happened. If I moved quickly I could fix this. I could pretend this never happened. I finally entered Wickliffe and turned into our driveway. To my absolute horror I saw my neighbors in their front yard. What I have failed to mention to you is what I was wearing. See, on this fateful day I had chosen to wear a khaki skirt and a pair of tall brown boots. The minute I stood up the only thing that stood between the ground and me was a pair of now destroyed Lane Bryant panties.
“New plan,” I thought, “Save the boots.”
While I waited for my neighbors to go inside, I wiggled my boots and socks off and threw them into the passenger seat. Each movement caused a wave…of nausea. The neighbors finally left and I started to get out of my car. I glanced at the seat to take inventory of everything I had to clean before Trey pulled in the driveway. I inched myself through the house and made my way to the shower. I climbed in and stripped. The hot water and body wash made quick work of my disgrace. I turned off the shower, dressed in pajamas, and grabbed a garbage bag. I bagged the evidence and cleaned up everywhere I had been. My Pine-sol soaked towel was tossed in with the ruined clothes and hidden in the trash can. I had made it home and cleaned up before Trey and now he would never know of my 30 miles of poop. I was in the kitchen when I heard him pull up and I walked to the living room to meet him as if nothing had happened. As he walked in he paused and sniffed, “Uh, Heather why does the house smell like shit and lemon pledge?”
I opened my mouth and said, “Because I just shit my pants for thirty minutes!” I told him every detail I could remember because when something is funny to me it matters not at all how embarrassing it is. We have eaten Hibachi many times since the great poop incident but now I always order the salmon and scallops just in case.