God knows I’m no stranger to over-sharing. I’ve told you guys more details than you could ever possibly want to know about the inner workings of my body. Nothing has been off limits: Lady parts, colon, ears, nose, throat and mouth… So it should come as a shock to no one that today’s post will feature more over-sharing.
Specifically, this post features my pants… and me crapping them. Yes. I crapped my pants.
Crapping one’s pants is never a fun experience, but in and of itself, it hardly bears re-telling. If I had merely crapped my pants in the comfort and privacy of my own home, I probably wouldn’t even feel inspired enough to share the story with you guys. Oh, who am I kidding? I would totally still tell you. I mean, I don’t want you to start thinking I make a habit out of shitting myself and not blogging about it. That would be selfish. And wrong. I’m a giver.
Ok. So. In regards to my digestive tract, things tend to be feast or famine. You know what I mean? *raises eyebrows and nods conspiratorially*
Why are you looking at me all confused? That was a perfectly good description of my poop making parts.
Feast or famine. Meaning either there is an abundance of digested stuff coming out, or none. Usually my butt is on lock-down, and I’m in a near constant state of “famine”. But every now and then, I anger the Gods, or accidentally drink water from Mexico, or in a fleeting lapse of common sense, perhaps I lick the bottom of my shoe – I honestly don’t know what brings on the “feast”, but sweet Jesus, my anus suddenly begins to impersonate a geothermal geyser. That’s right, a shit geyser.
Today was one such day. Again, no big deal, EXCEPT, my house is currently on the market, and every day my phone rings, and it’s that obnoxious bitch from Centralized Showing (technically it’s a different person each time, but I hate them all as one entity) telling me an agent will be showing my house at blau blau blau -usually-right-when-Brecken-should-be-napping time. Great.
So I clean my house spotless, keeping one eye on the clock. Sometimes those bastards like to come early. Just as I’m putting Brecken in the car, I make the age old mistake of trusting a fart. I know, rookie mistake. It’s just that the first little fart squeaked out without a problem, and I got cocky.
I immediately snap to attention. I look frantically at Brecken, playing with the straps to his car seat. I can hear the ticking of a clock in my mind as I judge how much time I have before the realtor shows up. Enough time to wrestle the boy out of the car? No. Making an executive decision, I leave Brecken in the car and run inside to the main floor powder room. Yeah, that’s probably technically illegal, the whole leaving my 2 year old in the car thing, but I at least leave the front door open, and the bathroom door open, so I can see any would-be car jackers/kidnappers. This also means that passersby can see me. I never got around to introducing myself to that new mom down the street, and now that she’s seen me in a state of dishabille, I don’t think I’ll be scheduling any play-dates with her.
As I sit helplessly on my toilet, waving to the odd neighbor, and UPS driver, I am wracked with terror, imagining the realtor coming in as I sit pantless in what is essentially my foyer.
I take a quick peek at Brecken sitting stoically in the car. I wave. He waves back. I run upstairs grab new pants and underwear. (I would like it noted that the crap in question wasn’t some nasty, double whopper with cheese crap, but rather a very tiny, vegan, lady-like crap. Hardly worth mentioning, really…) I run back downstairs, fighting my way into my clean clothes. I wave at Brecken. He waves back. I run downstairs to the basement, throw my barely-dirty-I-mean-HONESTLY-it-was-a-tiny-little-crap pants into the hamper, and run back upstairs. I wave at Brecken. He waves back. On go my shoes, and with a quick insurance flush for good measure, I rejoin my son in the car. I am so composed, no one would ever guess that I had just crapped my pants… except the whole neighborhood pretty much knows, having seen me on the toilet through my front door.
I’ll end this tale here, because even though I came very close to crapping my pants AGAIN no less than 3 times in the hour that followed, I somehow managed to keep my sphincter and my dignity intact. (Seriously. I damn near crapped my pants trying to get my card scanned at the front counter at the Y – a process that never takes more than .75 seconds, but today needed to take several minutes. I also nearly shit myself a few moments later when I couldn’t remember the combo into the women’s locker room. It’s funny how a spastic colon makes you lose IQ points.)
In conclusion: I am a classy lady!