I have Irritable Bowel Syndrome. IBS is a sick and horrible thing to have. People with IBS are not blessed with time when pooping is in order. When you feel that first -- and only -- wave of grumblings, a toilet is necessary. Immediately.
I ran track in high school, and I always had the Imodium with me, because stress = diarrhea. There was one track meet that I will never forget. It was the one against our rival team, and the one at which my four-hundred-meter relay team got to prove itself. It was May and, for Michigan, unseasonably warm outside. I was lying on the grass, stretching for the big race, when I felt the grumblings. I grimaced, and then I popped an Imodium and prayed for the best; there was no time for crapping.
I had found out earlier that day from my coach that I was not taking my usual spot as the first runner. Today, I was the anchor. The most important runner. The one who brought it home. I lined up at the three-hundred-yard point and tried to ignore my screaming bowels. "I only have to sprint a hundred meters and then I can crap," I kept telling myself.
The gun fired! The first runner was off and we were in the lead! The handoff to the second runner was bad; we fell to second place. The handoff to the third runner was great; we were neck-and-neck for first place. The handoff to me was flawless. I flew like I had never flown!
What you might not know is that when you're running at top speed, you have absolutely ZERO control over your sour arse.
Mine blew.
I crapped in my running shorts. But I continued on! Feeling the warm goo swish around and start creeping down my leg made me run faster and faster. I got first place! I grabbed the popsicle stick you get when you finish a race and fell in the grass, hoping to hide the brown mess that was surely showing through my shorts. I tried to wipe my leg off but my teammates were running to me, wanting me up to cheer and jump -- to jump with diarrhea in my pants. I grabbed my warm-ups (I had left them at the finish line to have easy access) and threw them on despite the heat -- I had to hide my ass. I was horrified as it was -- and then I remembered I had to run the eight-hundred-meter relay in about five or ten minutes.
It was going to be impossible. I ran up to my coach and told him I couldn't run. He fired some words off and I finally screamed at him, "I JUST SHIT MY PANTS... I CANNOT RUN!" He blushed and told me to take care of myself.
I ran to the school gym and proceed to take my clothes off. My shorts were ruined, as were my underwear. But the bathroom was full; how would I be able to exit the stall with crapped pants? So I did the grossed thing ever: I hung them on the flusher, exited the stall, and told the next girl in line that it was disgusting in there and some girl had crapped her pants and left the evidence. And then, after I heard the bathroom door shut behind me, I ran like a bat out of hell.
I'm still mortified that I crapped my pants in high school during a track meet, but it sure did make for a good story to tell my friends in college.