Growing up in the Midwest has its highs and lows. Family values, Abraham Lincoln, corn, tractors, corn, corn, corn fields, corn... Illinois, you see, is famous for its summer produce. Fresh corn, tomatoes, watermelons -- a delicious, balanced diet when paired with a big family dinner with all the trimmings. The problem is, my parents aren't farmers. They are lawyers.

Meaning we don't do family dinners. We subsist mainly on take-out. And last night's meal, for myself, was an order of Mr. China's chicken fried rice with a side of half a watermelon.

What can I say? It seemed like a good idea at the time.

And there is where the trouble started.

Because I am what I call "a theatre major" and others call "worthless," my parents, out of the kindness of their hearts, secured me a summer job as an intern in their office. It wasn't hard work. I toiled with the knowledge that I could be replaced by a high-end Xerox machine/coffee maker.

To better understand this story, you have to envision the office. Front door with an open reception area. To the left and to the right are hallways, both ending in a bathroom. Straight ahead are the offices, centered around a common bathroom. Upstairs is storage and the kitchen/break room/bathroom.

It must also be noted that everyone, from the janitors to my dad's partners, have known me since my adoption at age three days. My mom and dad brought me to visit, we made Christmas cards for the secretaries, sold candy and Girl Scout cookies... the office is like my extended family, and I serve as youngest daughter for most of them.

So: four bathrooms, one bad case of urgent diarrhea, and me, a Shameful Shitter to the extreme. I will not and cannot poop when others can hear me, unless I am at home.

This day would test my strength, courage and sheer iron will.

I call this: Runs in the Gauntlet.

Around eight AM, the gurgles started. Nothing unusual. I had skipped breakfast, regretting the Mr. China's and attributing the gurgles to hunger and the terrible coffee I was drinking. At 8:30, it became clear that this was no early-morning hunger. This was an intestinal storm of great magnitude. I would have to act fast.

First stop was upstairs, where I strained on the bowl and released loud and embarrassing bursts of gas. Thank god for the upstairs bathroom. But fate was against me this day. In swept the morning cleaning lady, Juanita, who recognized me by my pink Chuck Taylors and inquired, through my cubicle of sweet, sweet privacy, as to how I was this morning, and if I didn't mind hurrying because maintenance was going to be installing a new commode that day and she needed to get started.

"Fine... not a problem," I strained weakly. Jeans up, hands washed, I bolted out of my favorite at-work commode, knowing it would be hours before I could venture back into its safe recesses.

Down the stairs and across the lobby with a quick "hey" to the secretaries and my butt was quickly settled on the stool in the farthest corner of the public bathroom. The first chocolate rain fell somewhere between 8:45 and 8:50. None stayed dry and I felt the pain. It was going to be a long day.

I had just settled in when click click clickyclick, in came a gaggle of office ladies to check their make-up. Time for a location change.

I prayed for strength and dashed out of bathroom B and across the lobby to the smaller and less-used bathroom C. This is where the paralegal and intern and lady whose job is, well, I'm not really sure, except it involves painting her nails and buying those wicker basket thingies online. It is a single stall (read: echo chamber). I quickly turned on the faucet and prayed for a silent shart.

It was not to be. Blast after blast escaped me, and as I fired missile after missile, I realized that air warfare was also in play -- and there was no air freshener. I would open the door and expose the entire office to the stenchery of my Chinese-and-watermelon mistake. This would be one I would have to take for the team... maybe the air duct could...

There was a knock on the door.

"Just... just a minute..." I wiped as best I could, thanking the poopgods that I hadn't worn my favorite underwear that day. I knew that if I made it out of this horrible experience alive, my underwear would not survive the onslaught of friendly fire emanating out of my anus. Down the hall, around the secretary's desk, and into my dad's office. He was in trial. I would be safe in that bathroom, provided that no other lawyers needed to relieve themselves.

Another fifteen minutes, another blast of runny poo, and many desperate prayers later, there was a timid knock. Time to go. Jeans up, wipe the sweat off my pasty white brow, and a twelve-second blast of CranberryAppleSpicyCinnamonVanillaHappySmellyTime spray, I slipped out the door and avoided eye contact with the waiting patron at the door.

Back down the hall, into the foyer, greet the secretaries... to the bathroom on the right. Occupied!! I groaned. Once again my belly was gurgling and I knew I had not much time left before another wave would wash up upon my anal shore. Back down the hall, bum squeezed tight, to the left bathroom. I got several dirty looks. I looked at the clock -- it had only been about twenty minutes since I had visited this stall. Shit. I would be found out. Literally.

Ah, well. Seize the day.

I ducked inside and waited for sweet release. Nothing -- only gurgles and the promise of a brighter future in a few minutes. Great. Time to hatch a plan.

Back through the lobby, up and around to my second-floor haunt. There were no toilets -- only holes and cardboard boxes with new toilets. I considered it, but even my theatrical background couldn't help me improvise a good enough story for how I didn't notice that the toilets weren't attached to the floor. Blast and double blast! And speaking of, I needed a new plan. And quick.

Down the stairs and through the lobby, greet the secretaries, to the right. I was trying to hide my stomach crampy agony, but the interesting way I was walking a la Quasimodo must have raised more than a few eyebrows. Whatever. I could tell them I was practicing for a show. Through the offices, past my desk, where a stack of waiting files sat... files... yes! This was it! This was my out.

I grabbed the first one I saw and headed back out and around. I forced a weak smile onto my sweaty face.

"I have the -- to run this to -- this guy --" I mumbled as I headed out.

"Wait!"

No. Nonononono. This was not happening. My ass was about to go Mount Vesuvius all over the Italian marble my mom spent the better part of my first grade year picking out.

"What's up?" I half-turned. I was greeted by my dad's secretary of about twenty-eight years. I'm twenty myself, so this woman is not only my dad's secretary, but she is a dear family friend. A family friend who was about to get pooped on if she didn't get out of the line of fire.

"Can you deliver these as well?" she handed me a couple of files and smiled.

"Uh, yeah... sure..." I threw them into my runner's bag and turned and ran, full speed, outside into the street. I ran for a block, cursing myself for my Shameful Shitting and thanking myself for the last six months I had spent training to run under an eight-minute mile. Even with my bowels full of foul Chinese grease and sugar water, I was able to book it, double time, into the library down the street.

The friendly librarian looked at me with motherly concern. "Can I help you find anything?"

"Shakespeare!" I gasped. "I need Shakespeare!" You see, I, in my Shameful state, have often used the library as my place of refuge. Shakespeare was on the third floor, tucked away in a peaceful corner with a nicely-equipped bathroom. This is where I spent much of my lunch hour every day. I would walk around and peruse the reading material, selecting the perfect option for my afternoon relief.

This time, there was no time for that luxury. This was going to be a challenge. The librarian pursed her lips, squinted at me over her glasses, and warily pointed me in the direction of the elevators. "Third floor, to the back, on your left."

Before she finished "left", I was halfway to the stairs. I must have looked like some crazed crackhead who got my fix off of the sweet, sweet sound of iambic pentameter. I didn't think I could hold it much longer. If I didn't hustle, I was going to cover the immortal works of my favorite authors in shit.

And there, through the stacks, I saw the comforting blue door. I sprinted towards it, throwing it open and doing a combination pants pull-down/door locking maneuver. I believe I may have flown the last three steps to the toilets, but ass met porcelain the second before Diarrhea Dam broke.

I spent the next hour holed up in my third floor bathroom, taking only a short break to grab a book off of the shelf when I thought it was safe. Finally, I returned to the office, no one ever knowing how I had spent the most miserable morning of my life and vowing to never undergo the chicken fried rice/watermelon challenge again.

I guess, as Shakespeare would say, all's well that ends well.