There was a time, back before I birthed my first crotchfruit and decided that sending him off to a snot infested childcare center that I could just barely afford with my measly wages, that I was a workin’ girl. No, I’m not talking about the fucking corner – I’m talking about a fucking cubicle in an office with a computer AND a stapler. An office where I never saw any customers, but the management still saw it pertinent for employees to “dress to impress”.
Werk it, you sassy single
I’ve never been a DRESS girl, but clearly I couldn’t go in jeans and a t-shirt, and flip flops were forbidden, so business casual it was. I took pride in how I looked (not that I still don’t, but let’s face it, I don’t have to leave the house if I don’t want to so I can wear all the jeans I want. And not MOM jeans, but I digress).
I was young 20’s. I was single, and I was ready to mingle; and I had not yet learned the art of self deprecation as an art form…and a hilarious art form at that. Therefore, even the slightest embarrassment was a marr on my stellar record of “young and awesome.”
It’s not that I was a dainty young thang, but y’know, being single – you’re trying to hook a dude – so being horrifically disgusting is sort of frowned upon.
Those of us who are but mere-mortals have all experienced the “urgent poo” at least once in our lifetimes. You know the one i’m talking about – where you are sweating, ass-cheek clenching, rocking back and forth and praying not to shit your pants before you can make it to a bathroom and unleash the forces of hell via your rectum. You let out a HUGE sigh of relief, because – holy fuck – what if you’d shat your pants? What then? It would be an absolute nightmare. A tale never to live down if anyone ever heard about it – so most of us who consider ourselves ladies do not speak of such horrors. At least not to those of the opposite sex who are not related to us. Unless we want them to NOT want to have sex with us – then it’s open season.
Then came the time I caught a horrible terrible stomach bug. So horrible that I literally could not stop shitting for weeks. Yes, I said weeks. And after straight up shitting for hours on end turned into a nasty case of the sting ring, I decided it was probably a good time to visit the doctor – who laughed at a 21 year old girl who couldn’t stop leaking from her ass. I did not find this amusing. I also did not find it amusing that I was “highly contagious” and not to go to work. Neither did my job. You know, the one that stuck me in a cubicle but made me dress nicely.
One might think I could take Immodium – the shit stopper – and all would be right with the world again. I’d go back to being the young and single 21 year old with decent self esteem and a stupid job in a cubicle, and my pooping would cease other than on the regular occasion. You’d think wrong. It stopped my ass up so hard that I had cramps like I’d be pushing a baby out any second. A poo baby, mind you, but a baby nonetheless.
I finally fell asleep after hours of tossing and turning and what did I wake up to? Poo leakage. That’s right, poo leakage! And the dude I was casually dating? Right.fucking.next.to.me. Let me tell you how sexy he found me at that very moment! Fuck my life. Fuck, fuck, fuck.
It finally got to the point where I’d been shit-crazy for so long that my job began to threaten me. Yeah, even with the doctor’s note. Told me they were considering firing me because I couldn’t stop shitting, that sure was nice of them. I informed them that if I came back to work, they’d all be shit-crazy too, and did they really want that? Yeah, I didn’t think so. Bitches.
Still, the damn pressure and lack of money due to using up all of my sick days got to me – and I finally decided I had stopped shitting every 5 minutes and could make it to work. The bathroom wasn’t far from my desk. I COULD DO THIS SHIZZ. So I get dressed in my nice clothes, get into my car, and make my drive to work. Not even halfway through that oh-so familiar feeling overwhelmed me. The one we discussed earlier y’all, only this time, I knew urgent wasn’t just urgent, it was an IMMEDIATE kind of thing. I needed a bathroom RIGHT THAT FUCKING SECOND… only…I worked in a not nice area of town (and by ‘not so nice’ I mean absolutely terrifying, don’t get out of your car, why did I take this job?) and I’ll be DAMNED if I was going to hover over one of the gas station holes to release the demons.
No, that was not going to happen. So I held it. But it was not easy. I was cursing, and crying, and rocking – all while trying to drive – and when I finally pulled into the parking lot at work, I swore I saw heaven’s pearly gates open up…only…work made the measly low paid employees park in the extended parking lot. Down the road and across the street. Thank you so much, work, I love you. You are the best and I want to have your babies.
By the time I did that ass-clenching poo waddle across the street and began making my way down the next, I knew it was too late. It was game over for my dignity; I was going to shit my pants. It was no longer something I could control or MAYBE had the chance of working out in my favor, no. I had come to terms with my fate: Pants-shitting. In public. Going in to work.
I felt super fabulous at that moment, and by super fabulous, I meant a sobbing swamp-assed mess.
I rushed into the door and into the nearest bathroom (one floor below mine) and assessed the situation. The level was red. Fucked. Totally fucked. Through the underwear, through the pants – but I knew if I didn’t make an appearance at work I was done-for, and although my job was full of batshit crazy evil unfeeling bitches and the pay sucked, it was a job and I needed the job.
So what did I do? I took my jacket, tied it around my waist like I was back in the mother-badword 90’s, and did the walk of shame to my supervisor’s desk.
Let me tell you how much fun it is to be a 21 year old female and have to explain to your boss that you shit your pants right outside the door and need to go home… NOT FUCKING FUN.
You can tell by someone’s eyes when they are judging you, horrified yet laughing at you on the inside – this was one of those moments.
If ever there were a rock bottom in a young woman’s life that has nothing to do with drugs or alcohol or run ins with the fuzz- it’s shitting yourself while walking and then having to tell your superior about it so that you could get permission to clean yourself up.
I cried the entire drive home and then washed myself with bleach. Okay, not really, but I’m pretty sure I scrubbed until the top layer of skin was gone.
And THAT, my friends, is why I will not laugh AT people who have the misfortune of shitting themselves in public ever again. Not even my kids, who tend to do it on a more frequent basis than adults of a healthy disposition. Instead, I will laugh WITH them – because they may not be laughing now…but one day, like me, hopefully they will.
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