Confessions Of A Grown Adult: I Pooped My Pants

The one thing that I have always tried to convey to the readers of this blog since we started was that I would be honest and not only give you insights into what interests me but into my personal life as well. Let’s cut to the chase, I pooped my pants. It was a gorgeous spring morning in 2017 and I woke up very early, it was one of those weeklong periods where I told myself I would go to the gym and look like a young Sly Stallone. I went to the gym at the crack of dawn, returned to the apartment where the Procrastination Princess and I were living, jumped in the shower and she took off for work. I got dressed in my suit, it was a big day at my job in downtown Albany, New York. I realized that I still had some time to kill before I had to be at my office.

As I was driving into work, I knew there was a diner that I stopped at a lot and it was calling my name. My head was throbbing, I was hung-over (I had a bad drinking problem back in the day but thankfully I am coming up on two years sober, celebration for your favorite blogger) tired from the workout and I needed some food before I took on an entire workday. I stopped quickly at the gas station to put some gas in the car and to purchase my favorite newspaper, the New York Post. I arrived at the diner and bellied up to the counter, there wasn’t many people in the diner that morning, I spread out and laid the paper out on the counter and began reading the sports section. The early sixty-something waitress approached and pulled a pencil out of her ear and an ordering book from her apron, she said “what’ll it be sweetie”? I paused, perused the menu one final time and decided on a cheese omelet, with tomato, spinach and mushrooms; in addition, I got home fries, an English muffin and bacon. Back in 2017 I was drinking coffee too, the real stuff, now it’s only decaf, but back then I drank coffee like it was water. I polished off the meal, washed it down with a couple cups of coffee, folded the newspaper under my arm, grabbed a toothpick on the way out the door and as soon as I stepped outside, I unleashed a tremendous burp. Woah, that felt weird, I grabbed my Ray-Ban Club Masters from my breast pocket, put them on and let the crisp, cool, spring, New York air hit my face as I strolled through the parking lot toward my car.

The drive from the diner to my office, that was on the 20th floor was roughly twenty minutes away. As I began to drive and hit some traffic, the burps continued, this one more eruptive than the last. We were flirting with a combination of alcohol, exercise, greasy food, coffee and a lack of water all we needed was a pinch of Skoal and we would have had ourselves what us in the poop pants game fondly refer to as “The Perfect Storm”. I decided to tempt fate, roll the dice and spit in the eye of the storm, I packed a lip of dippy doo. The Skoal apple blend was an instant mistake, I knew it, my stomach knew it and the generations before me who were looking down, the great men of our past who hovered on the precipice of pooping their pants, they knew it too. At this time, I knew I might have stepped too far over the line, but I never expected that a river of diarrhea awaited me, I was burping but I was feeling fine.

As I mentioned, my office was in downtown, so there was a shuttle lot where you would drop off your car and then bus into the office. I made it there with no problem, hopped on the shuttle bus and began my last trek into the office. The shuttle dropped me off and I walked through the underground concourse to my office, still feeling good. I emerged from the underground sardine can and was out in the open, my building was within eyesight and a wave came over me that I cannot put into words, the stomach had opened, and a poop was coming. I climbed the stairs and hopped on the elevator, it was just me, it was the morning, no way this stops on any floors if nobody gets on, right? I rode the elevator, the feeling of taking a dump was now overwhelming and I needed to get to my floor immediately. The unthinkable happened, the elevator stalled and the doors re-opened, we hadn’t moved an inch, I was still in the lobby and people began to now pile into the elevator. This was a nightmare scenario, we stopped on the 4th floor and then again on the 9th, the 11th and 12th floor indicators were lit up like the Christmas tree at Rockefeller center, once more on the 19th floor, my floor was next.

I arrived on the 20th floor and the elevator doors opened, I was alone, I took a step out of the elevator and I was frozen, stunned, incapable of any movements whatsoever, my suit coat felt like it weighed 200 pounds, I was sweating and I was in an unwinnable position. I knew that if I took a normal step I was going to poop my pants in an explosive and violent manner, one that I wouldn’t be able to recover from. I began to waddle, like Danny Devito as Oswald Cobblepot in Batman Returns, the sweat was pouring down my face, I dare not sneeze, blink or unlatch my cheeks at any cost. I turned the corner to where the bathroom stared me in the face, like a beacon in the night, it was calling my name, in my excitement, I forgot the golden rule, DO NOT TAKE A NORMAL STEP, I did just that and the gates of hell opened up and as if a fire hose was opened up in my suit pants, diarrhea rained down upon me.

I went into the bathroom stall in a complete panic, cleaned up, tossed some of the unsalvageable garments into the trash and began to work on damage control. The thought crashed down upon me like a tsunami on the shore, my car was back at the shuttle lot and I was stuck here in my poop pants. I could never ask one of my co-workers who were slowly starting to come into the office, I would be mortified, then I thought about calling my fiancée, she was at work, a job that doesn’t allow her to leave on a whim. There I stood a 24-year-old man covered in poop, shame and embarrassment. I decided to call the one person who is always there for a young man, who has seen the worst of him and only mentions his bets moments, my mother. I dialed the phone and my Mom picked up ……

“MOM I POOPED MY PANTS AND YOU NEED TO COME TO MY WORK IMMEDIATELY”, she asked if I was serious and again “MOM I POOPED MY GODDAMN PANTS, THE SUIT IS SOILED, YES I AM SERIOUS, TURN OFF HOWARD STERN AND GET YOUR ASS DOWN HERE NOW”. The subtle love a son has for his mother, she did not disappoint and showed up to drive me home, on the way home I fired off some story via email to my boss as to why I wouldn’t be into work until later, thank the good lord nobody saw me waddling, stained, sweating or racing to the exit to meet my Mom who just had to leave her job to drive her pooped pants grown adult son to his apartment so he could shower.

I showered, stared at my suit and assessed the damage, am I crazy or can this suit be saved? It was salvageable, not by me, or a normal apartment resident but by a professional, a dry-cleaning professional who values getting stains out of all sports of different garments and apparel. I bagged up the poop suit and I told my Mother to stop at the dry cleaner on my way back to the office. My heart was beating fast, I had a bag filled with poop and top-quality Joseph A. Bank big and tall slacks. I approached the dry cleaner’s desk, looked at him, took a pause, and said “This is my brother’s suit, he told me to drop it off for him”. He stared at me, looked in the bag, looked back at me, shuffled the pants around and said, “Sounds good, he or you can pick it up on Thursday”. I don’t have a brother, he knew I didn’t have a brother, but sometimes it’s best to let pooping dogs lie.