I’m doing pretty well thanks for asking, but last week I came as close as a you can come to shitting your pants.

If a kid shits his pants it’s kind of funny. When you’re 17 and you shart a little bit–still funny. But when you’re heading to a weekend getaway destination with your significant other and you turn down the volume in the car because you’re about to for-real shit your pants, it’s not funny anymore.

My fiancé just gave me that look, “are you kidding me right now?” As if to say why are you doing this to us. Classic victim-blaming if you ask me. 

 So we pull up to the destination and I get out and just stand there, part shame, part terror, and slide-step to the check-in area with her. I immediately ask if they have a bathroom–and they don’t–so I just hand over my credit card and walk out which is the universal language for I just shit my pants.I didn’t though, because that’s not how I wanted my first time to go, and I’m a fighter.

Adriana checks us in and I’m still standing next to the car, glancing at the snow mounds wondering if I’m the type of person to just shit on a snow mound. I don’t think I am but desperation does weird things to people so I consider it for longer than I should have. I get in the car to pull to our suite (it’s a 500 yard drive) and realize that I’ve felt like this before, holding in a fart while running on a Planet Fitness treadmill. It’s an anatomically impossible situation to pull off. Just like the gallon-of-milk contest I’ve also attempted. 

Anyways.

I calculate that if I put any pressure on the gas pedal it will be the catalyst to a shit-storm. Adriana takes the keys, and we switch places. We don’t even talk. Another glance.

What is wrong with you. 

This isn’t normal for me. I’m not a ‘close call’ type of person. Sure, I get stomach aches more than your average man but that’s just because I inherited the stomach of a sick Somalian kid from my mother. And yet, there I was wondering what type of clean-up situation it was going to be. I decided it was going to be the type of cleanup where I didn’t move from the crime and someone would have to get me towels.

I pulled through.

Then the toilet clogged.

Literally 10 minutes into a romantic weekend getaway and I’m being told to find a plunger by my lady-friend. I’m not easily embarrassed but it’s pretty terrible to ask the desk lady for a plunger when you DESPERATELY asked if there was a bathroom 10 minutes earlier. Pretty safe to say she knew there was a problem. She handed me the plunger and I got the same what is wrong with you look. Took me an HOUR to get that toilet going again but I’m not blaming myself. There was just BAD water flow. You know what I’m talking about. The toilet that does the slow swirl that makes your heart palpitate if you’re in a public restroom. I got one of those in a Maine Hannafords and well, haven’t been back to that one since. I’m dead serious when I tell you that I YouTubed a video on plunging techniques in the first hour of my vacation. The solution involved hot water, soap, conditioner, and hope but I succeeded.

I know the story is better if I shit my pants but this is a story about fear and our futures. I’m getting up more in the middle of the night to piss and I hear this is the behavior of people getting old and I’m not ready, guys. If I have to pee but I’m really tired, I want to be able to just go back to sleep and subconsciously hold it. I don’t want to pee my pants and I certainly don’t want to shit my pants. Not like that, anyways. I don’t even drink anymore so I can’t blame a fun night. A sober person should never shit their pants. Just shouldn’t happen.

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