In reality, I should probably not put this story out into
the internet forever because there’s a fair chance that a future employer may
stumble upon my blog and reconsider their decision to hire me (If so, please
don’t judge me. It’s a hard life being this weird).
This story I am about to tell you is 100% factual and I wish
it wasn’t and I’m probably going to dwell in my own regret once I hit the ‘publish’
button, but the world is so full of hate and awfulness that I think I can
handle a little bit of public humiliation if it brightens your day.
So our story begins with seventeen-year-old me on the
computer at home in the summer. I’m just hanging out and watching some YouTube
videos with cats. You know the usual. I get a call from my mother saying she
needs her briefcase ASAP and she doesn’t have time to drive all the way home to
get it. She says she’ll meet me halfway in the parking lot of a pool. I was a
little annoyed. Dude I was just getting to the good part of the cat video where
the cat is being especially cat-like. But hey, I’m newly licensed and an excuse
to drive myself somewhere is as good as any. I grab the briefcase and head out
to meet her.
On the drive over to the parking lot I realize I have to use
the bathroom, but it’s no big deal. I can definitely hold it.
I get to the lot and give my mom her briefcase. I mention that
I kind of need to number 2, she tells me I should run in and go to the
bathroom. Seems logical enough, but I’m like nah, I can hold it. It’s only
like, what, ten minutes back to the house? I’ll be fine.
Thirty seconds into the ride home, my bowels begin to speak
to me. Hey, Julia. Yeah um just letting
you know that we’re expecting a delivery any time now. I of course ignore
the warnings of my grumbling digestive system. It’s just gas, right? I’ll be A-okay.
Just five more minutes and we’ll be home.
One minute later things get SO real SO fast. My bowels are
like, there’s no time for waiting. You
have less than a minute until your poop package is delivered. Get to a toilet.
GO GO GO!
So here I am, sweating from every orifice of my body, white-knuckled
on the steering wheel, and cursing myself for not just going at the pool
building. At this point all laws of driving safety do not apply to me. I am
rolling through stop signs and speeding around corners desperately hoping
against hope that a target will spring up in the middle of the endless blocks
of suburban homes.
I knew that I had no choice but to pull over. My squirming
was seriously impairing my driving. So I did. I pulled my car over six blocks
away from my house and had a moment with myself. I knew what that what I was
about to do was going to be ugly. I, in that moment, forgave myself in advance
for being a failure at functioning like a proper adult.
Then began the hot sweaty scramble to find something,
anything, that would soon become my makeshift toilet (Warning: things are about
to get kind of graphic).
I had about 4.5 seconds to grab something before things got
messy and in my frazzled state, I grabbed a winter glove from the passenger
side floor. And there I sat in broad daylight, a grown-ass woman taking a crap
into a cheap-knit winter glove. After it was over, I pulled up my pants like a
dignified person and found a plastic bag to bury my shame (and ruined glove),
and then I cried all the rest of the way home.
I parked in the driveway and began the cleaning of shame.
The trip to the outside garbage, trying not to look like I was carrying a
diaper-glove, the thorough shower to cleans me from the grief of knowing I was
an idiot. Then having to Google how to clean my seat and being pleasantly
surprised at the effects of vinegar.
Lesson of the story: Don’t be stupid, just go poo like a
normal person.
Again, I may live to highly regret the decision to share
this to the world, but life’s short and if this makes you laugh, then I’m cool with
looking like a fool.
No comments:
Post a Comment