October of 2009 marked the eleventh anniversary of pooping my pants. It happened the day after my twentieth birthday, which I had spent like any good American near the border would - drinking with my sister in Windsor, Canada.
I was carpooling back to school in Michigan, specifically to the Upper Peninsula, with some friends and their dog. Along the way, we stopped at an outlet mall and then decided to and grab Taco Bell. Well, not long after ingesting some pintos and cheese, I felt a massive rumble in my lower regions. Shortly thereafter we passed a sign stating that the next rest area was just a few miles away. I was sweating a little, but I told my friend to keep on driving because I thought I could make it.
What was I thinking? Did I really think I could make it to the Upper Peninsula?
Yes, I did, and on we went.
The following sign said that the next rest area was forty-four miles away, and I immediately thought, “Oh, crap. We shoulda’ stopped...” You must all know what happened at this point. I began sweating and cramping, and in a panic, I begged for my friend to pull over. All the while her dog was getting in my face because he was so excited that I was so excited... and then...
I crapped myself. Of course I crapped myself - what else would I do with a stomach full of Taco Bell, no restroom in sight, and a wound-up, large dog jumping all over me?
Because I didn't want to ruin my friend's car, I got on my hands and knees right there in the back seat. And this was when the dog got a whiff of the situation. All hell broke loose.
He was an eighty pound chocolate lab, and he tried his best to get at my butt. Meanwhile, my friend driving the car was apologizing for not being able to pull over, and her boyfriend at the time started harassing me for losing it in my pants.
My friend pulled off the interstate at the next exit, which happened to be a small town; but since it was Sunday, nothing was open. I ended up running into the woods to poo a little more and try to clean myself up. (I had to use three t-shirts and some underwear.) It wasn’t until we had driven about ten miles away on I-75 that I realized, while cleaning myself up, that I’d put my shoes on top of the car and forgot to grab them afterward. We had to drive back to the exit. By the time we arrived back to where I’d cleaned up, the sun had gone down.
As we were retracing our steps down that lonely, two-lane road, we saw a minivan pulled over on the other side of the road. in the beam of the headlights I saw an older gentleman stooping over to pick up my shoes where they had fallen off the car. I started banging on the window, yelling, "Those are my shoes!" I jumped out of the back seat and just grabbed them out of the man's hands. All I could say was, "Those are my shoes."
Finally in possession of all my gear, we headed back to the highway, and at the next rest area I washed my poopy pants in the women's toilet.
