For as long as I can remember, my life has been riddled with digestive difficulties. As a baby, I cried constantly over an upset stomach. But there eventually came a time when I had to leave my diapers behind and venture into the world of shitting without a safety-net. In this universe of adulthood, you either make it to a toilet... or you don't.
I consider myself a germiphobe. I despise urinating in public bathrooms, let alone having a bowel movement in one. When I'm forced to come into contact with those germ-filled hell-holes, I'm always sure to clean the seat with toilet paper, put on the protective seat cover, and then squat for added security.
There have been a handful of times in my life, all of which I can distinctly remember, when I've had to throw away all standards of cleanliness and let loose in the most undesirable of places. Each of these incidents was preceded by a restaurant meal. Of course, there are no warning signs until long after I have left the restaurant, which makes the only solution to jump out of the car and shit in the nearest gas station, fast-food chain, or even the dirt sidelining of a busy highway. This latest time, however, is worthy of noting.
I was home from college and decided to go to lunch with my longtime friend, Max. We have known each other for years and make it a point to have private time together to catch up and reflect whenever we're home. So Max took me to an authentic Mexican restaurant downtown. I had read about it in a number of magazines, and knew that it had gotten great reviews.
I had been drinking tons of water all day. I really had to pee. So when we finally arrived at the restaurant, I looked for the bathroom before we sat down at the table. But the bathroom was out of order, and the waitress spoke so little English that I couldn't understand where to find another one. I figured that it wasn't worth it, and that I would wait until we got home to go.
I know what you're thinking: I should have seen it coming. The combination of authentic Mexican cuisine, a history of digestive problems, and an out-of-order bathroom. But I *didn't* see it coming, and that's why I'm writing this today.
We ate our meal, and it was quite enjoyable. I had chicken fajitas. I subbed black beans for rice. Another mistake.
After we got our check, I still had to pee, but Max and I decided to get in the car and head back home and use the bathroom there. As I mentioned before, I always prefer my own bathroom anyway. It was only a few minutes into the car ride that I realized I was having an emergency. My bowels were churning so horribly that they could be heard in the silent car. I generally don't discuss pooping with Max, but at this point there was no choice. It was an emergency; and from the sounds coming out of my body, he could tell.
I needed to release the pressure, but I knew that farting would lead to a full release of my entire internal contents. He told me not to worry, that we would be home soon. My face became red and hot and I was clenching my anus so tightly that I thought I was going to explode.
I unbuckled my seat belt and lifted my butt above the seat to achieve an easier means of tightening my colon. The shit was coming. It was just a matter of time.
I was concentrating so hard on not coating my friend's camel-colored leather seats in liquid shit that I hadn't taken the time to notice what surrounded me. We were in traffic. And not your average traffic. This was really, really bad. Bumper to bumper bad. It looked like we were in a parking lot.
I told Max that I wasn't going to make it. I started to think of alternative solutions. I screamed in agony, hoping that the release of mental pressure would also alleviate the physical. It didn't.
At that point, Max did what any good friend would do. He rolled down his window and screamed at the top of his lungs, "We're having a baby! We're having a baby, people! Move it!"
I rolled down my window and chimed in. Before I knew it, we were screaming at the top of our lungs -- him out of fear, me out of agony. Lo and behold, little by little, the cars moved out of the way, and we carved our way out of the mass of immobile automobiles.
We made good time, but it wasn't good enough. We were only a few minutes from my house when I simply couldn't hold it any more. I decided to let out a small fart to relieve some of the agony and to hopefully stop the shooting pains that were running through my stomach like bullets; the source may have well been a machine gun at this point.
I couldn't stop it. I was using my hands to hold my airborne butt cheeks together in the hopes of gaining a bit more time. Finally, I loosened my grip a bit in a desperate attempt of controlling an escape.
I felt a release of pressure unlike anything I have ever felt before. My hands were coated in warm liquid. The liquid had soaked my underwear, my jeans, my hands, and now the car seat. It was truly the definition of bittersweet: the ultimate relief, mixed with the ultimate humiliation.