Does Pooping Your Pants in Public Make You a Better Person?

I am disheartened to tell you that this is not my first experience with nearly shitting my pants on what was supposed to be an otherwise relaxing walk.

Yes, I am a 35-year-old woman, and yes, I try not to lower my storytelling standards by tossing in potty humour to get a few cheap laughs. Except that’s pretty much what I’ve built my brand on because sometimes, one must simply relay the events as they happened — in all their humiliating glory.

As you all know, I’m trying to be a better human being lately. It turns out this life choice of mine has been devastating for my career.

There is one simple reason for this — I can’t seem to focus on anything now that my brain and body aren’t full of all the terrible things. It seems that fatty foods, wine and the raging narcissism that fuels my black and stormy soul are the lifeblood to all the laughs I’ve provided to you, my lovelies, during the fruitful dark times of my literary career.

Exercising while banishing full bottles of Malbec’s from my daily agenda has indeed cleared my brain fog but in an unfortunate turn of events it’s become crystal clear that the brain fog is where all of the weird and wonderful shit I write about was born!

The problem is, I’m still worried about my health, so I can’t very well revert to my dirtbag ways, so instead, a few days ago I decided to give myself a cheat day.

Oh, how glorious it felt to stuff my face with rich curries and naan bread while downing a bottle of wine and talking shit about all the people in my life. Ah, back to the basics — that’s what life’s really about.

If you didn’t catch on, this drawn-out intro is me trying to avoid writing about shitting myself as a full-grown adult.

But let’s cut the crap and get down to the nitty-gritty.

I woke up the next day with a hangover from hell. After not having drunk for a while, my brain and body were not used to the after-effects of such activities. My head was pounding, but worse than that, my brain told me that I must get right back into the healthy living lifestyle.

The morning-after guilt sweats were eating me alive.

So I tied up my sneakers, leashed the doggo and set out for a morning stroll. The fresh air, I must admit, felt good on my wine-soaked pores and ultimately, I was feeling good about my choice to get back out there.

Maybe I am growing as an individual.

I felt so good that I didn’t realize how far I had travelled until it was too late. About half an hour into my walk, my stomach started churning. Like the kind of rumbling that you can feel deep down in your butt. A butt-clenching sort of rumble.

Oh, for the love of fuck this couldn’t be happening! Not again.

But of course, it was happening. It was happening hard. It seems that whenever one must hold in the devastating kind of bowel explosion that might erupt at any given moment, it becomes an exercise of pure will.

Will I shit my pants on this bustling city sidewalk?
Will I have to grab my butthole in hopes of plugging up the matter that is undoubtedly about to spew forth with angry velocity?
Will I ever regain my dignity after such events come to pass?

My boozy hangover sweat had quickly transformed into a worried cold dew all over my body. Even with my headphones in, I could hear the groans of my ever-turning tum and knew that no good would come from this predicament.

Obviously I wanted to write “poo-dicament” but felt that the pun was beneath me. Literally.

I had to get my mind off of the situation at hand while I waddled homeward, so I recalled the time I was working as a prep cook in a kitchen with the weirdest Chef I had ever known. She was a temperamental woman who needed constant praise to whip up the most mediocre food you’ve ever tasted.

One morning she came into work, and as we sat out back drinking our coffees and chain-smoking our cigarettes, she casually said, “I shat on the side of the highway this morning.”

“Excuuuuse me?” I replied in an unintentionally cartoonish fashion.

“I was driving to work and realized I needed to shit and couldn’t wait. So I pulled over and popped a squat on the side of Highway 2.”

Wait.

Can we do that? I wondered.

I thought of all the times I’ve held in explosive diarrhea because there wasn’t a bathroom available in my general vicinity. Now, I’m learning that people just shit on the side of the road when they feel the need?

My brother once shit his pants while pulling over to relieve himself in the ditch. He wasn’t quick enough on the draw, though, and as he hopped out of his truck and hurried to conceal himself, he fully pooped his pants.

Like, once it started there was no going back.

I documented the event by writing this poem. He was displeased that I did that.

In the years since, I’ve told many people about my chef and my brother and their highway pooping tales, and it’s surprising how many don’t laugh at these stories. Instead, they nod their heads in commiseration and say, “I remember when I shit my pants on the side of the highway.”

It makes me wonder what kind of a prude am I to have never defecated in public. Oh, there have been close calls for sure. One can never predict when a devastating flu bug or case of food poisoning might hammer down upon them and those times, I admit, are tricky indeed.

I’ve never fully taken take the plunge, though.

Maybe I should just let myself shit down my yoga-panted leg right here and now, get it over with.

This was the reigning thought as I stood there, looking admiringly at the doggy poop bags attached to Lucy’s leash. And as if she were reading my thoughts, she stopped and squatted, making smug eye contact with me as she relieved herself.

The problem with shitting yourself in public is the smell. Sure my jacket would likely cover up the stain that would inevitably appear seconds after the act, but I have a sneaking suspicion the smell would linger. Considering this poop-stew was born from too much wine and curry the night before, I suspect the scent would be — for lack of a better phrase — absolutely fucking heinous.

During the last 15 minute stretch of my devastatingly long journey home, I was filled with thoughts of what-if.

I could see it all so clearly — me shitting my pants in front of my neighbourhood. I’d forever be known as the woman who pooped herself and walked on to tell the tale. Lucy would be relentless in her quest to stick her snout in my butt to get a good long whiff of my degradation. The neighbour kid from down the street would point and laugh because he’s a little asshole.

By the time I made it to my front step, I was covered in nervous poop-withholding sweat. I was screaming inwardly while the tears of a close call were brimming in my eyes. I entered the door combination with trembling fingers, only to hear the most defeating sound.

The familiar beep indicated that the lock was low on batteries — thus unable to unlock the door under its own power. The key, hidden in the backyard. So close. Yet so so far away — I finally understood the deep and powerful meaning of that saying.

“NOOOOOOOO,” I screamed.

And then, as if the universe answered the very thoughts that consumed my soul, all of my hopes and fears came crashing down under there.

Under where, you ask?

Exactly.

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This post was previously published on Lindsay Rae Brown’s blog.

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