For as long as I can remember, I've always had certain reservations about pooping. I always envied those who could just openly talk about having to take a dump, because, for whatever reason, I was terrified of the day I would have to confront the obvious. Matter of fact, one of my biggest concerns when I got married was having to share the restroom on our honeymoon.

It's not a problem now, but seventeen years ago -- at the tender age of fourteen -- it most definitely was. A friend of mine was dating this guy, but she was not allowed to go out on a date unsupervised unless accompanied by another pair. A double-date. She begged me to go. I reluctantly agreed. She made all the arrangements and we were set.

Well, just so you know, another friend was visiting me at this time. Her name was Flo. And it was her second day in town, if you know what I mean. And let me tell you: it ain't pretty when Flo comes around. It's not uncommon for me to get sudden onsets of diarrhea with my period.

Nevertheless, as any good friend would do, I agreed to hook her up and go out with this complete stranger whom I had not yet met.

My friend's boyfriend arrived to pick us up. We then had to go to the other guy's house to pick him up. I sat in the back seat alone, looking around, checking out the car, you know... and then my bowels started talking to me. They were pissed! The cold sweats began to set in and I knew I was in trouble.

What was I going to do? I was already obsessed with some kind of poop-phobia. How was I going to relieve bowels and keep my dignity intact?

We arrived at my date's house. We walked in to see everyone and their brother/sister/second cousin sitting in the living room. They lived in a small trailer, so the house packed.

I asked to be pointed to the bathroom. I entered it. The bathroom was small and located only a few feet from the main living area. They told me that it happened to be the only working bathroom. And I didn't have much confidence in this toilet, either. It looked like it had been very abused and was ready to breakdown any second.

But I didn't have a choice.

Dreading it, I closed the door. I pulled down my pants and squeezed my butt cheeks together while relaxing my bowels, thinking that this technique would soften the blow, so to speak.

Not a chance!

My only saving grace was that the party outside was into their football game. I hoped they were louder than I was. However, I felt I had been in the bathroom for an eternity; so now I was also a little afraid to come out to see their reaction to my extended stay.

I was thinking about this as I wiped and stood to refasten my pants. I turned around to flush, and began to pray. "Please go down, please go down..."

My prayers were not honored. Immediately, the water level began to rise. My shit, my bloody tampon, and half a roll of toilet paper was nearing its way out of the commode. I began to panic. I had to think fast, but also be quiet.

I quickly and carefully lifted the tank lid and held the balloon thingy to stop the water from filling the bowl. The water level lowered some, but I could tell by the looks of it that a second flush would be disastrous.

I let go of the ball and watched the bowl. I watched intently until the tank finished filling with water. I was then safe to look around for a plunger, hanger, something.

I had no such luck.

So I had no other option but to leave. And that's what I did. I left behind me the worst surprise anyone could ever come across.

I vowed to do two things that day:

1) Never to see that guy again.

2) Learn how to say "no" once in awhile.