Hello dawlings! Have you been on the edge of your seat, just dying to hear if I shat the bed yet?
Well. I didn’t. (my mother breaths a sigh of relief) But – settle in.
So I arrive at the place and am shown to my room where I drop trough and climb into the bed. The RMT comes in and I’m delighted to see she’s an incredible hulk of a woman. Looked like she could crush a mailbox between her thighs. I was excited.
Fast forward an hour and, to sum it up, it was a little disappointing. I mean the massage itself was nice, just not as painful as I’d hoped or anticipated; more ‘lovely day at the spa’ like. Boo. (not to sound ungrateful. She did do some amazing work, kept saying how my lower back was ‘so tight!’, and it felt great to have both the validation and to have a lot of those muscles to release.)
So I redress and drink some water and am shown to the chiro room, and fortunately had a few minutes to spare; I’d gotten so relaxed from the massage I’d near forgotten about my chiropooptic anxieties.
So I quickly dash to the loo, spend ten minutes and half a roll of toilet paper building a ‘nest’, looked upward to the sky and prayed for a poop. By the good grace of God I was able to dispense a mini-deuce, which was enough to assuage my fears but also only a fraction of what I hoped for.
So onto the chiro bed I hop, while a 250lb brickhouse of a man bends me up and jumps on me, snap crackle and popping (oops – almost wrote ‘pooping’ there, one track mind or what) me into place. (And for whatever reason, I think it’s the sound, but I find this procedure absolutely hilarious, and giggle like a schoolgirl throughout the entire process. Buddy thought I was nuts.)
And out I went, limber and aligned and still full of drugs, so feeling like a million bucks. It was still earlyish so I decided to pop into the giant dollar store up the hill to grab some Christmas wrappings for all the pressies I had to mail.
This dollar store really is massive, and brand new so it doesn’t have that awful moth ball & Pine Sol smell. I was very much enjoying myself perusing the aisles for Christmas bags and bows and boxes, despite the store being packed with narky people and screaming children, and I was happily inspecting a package of bows when – there it was.
I froze; my eyes flew from the bows and fixated right in front of me, on nothing in particular as every ounce of my attention was focused inward.
Oh… Oh, my God. OH my God. Omigod omigod omigod; the Shat Ship had arrived and docked and was about to disembark, right NOW. RFN.
I literally whirled, dear friends; my hair did one of those fly-about Pantene commercial whips. I barreled my cart down the aisle, bows still in hand, as my entire abdomen grumbled and growled loud enough to wake the dead. My face was crunched up in a grimace and judging by the looks on people’s faces as I elbowed them and their children out of the way, I must have been quite the sight.
I two-wheeled my cart around the corner, knocking someone’s screaming brat right off its feet & earning myself a gasp from both kid and mother, (to which I might have replied ‘at least he finally shut up’ had I been able to think about anything other than finding a toilet) my eyes flying about for the bathroom. I finally located an employee, by which I mean acne-ridden-near-unemployable-high-school-dropout-pissy-teenager who was merely gaining cash register experience for her future of counting and collecting loonies, rushed up to her and breathlessly demanded ‘Wheresthebathroom?!’
Her scowling little face never left the box of deodorant she was unpacking, and with a dramatic sigh to showcase her great annoyance at being disturbed by some dumbshit customer, she shook her head. ’Don’t have one’.
No. I wasn’t having it. I knew there was one and I needed to find it NOW, but I didn’t have time to argue with this skank. After a (fortunately faster) back and forth involving my ‘You don’t HAVE one? Nowhere, anywhere, not for the staff even?!’ and her (incredibly snitty) reply of ‘NO, we DON’T’ I moved immediately to Plan B; I had to get the hell out of there. I was at the back of the store and could see the door; unfortunately, between me and it was a huge family at the till buying frigging everything, with three carts, completely blocking my way out.
I heard myself actually whimper. I was absolutely stricken with panic, picturing worst case scenarios and rapidly concluding by the violent contractions in my abdomen that I wasn’t going to make it. I analyzed quickly; the family was done paying, merely loading their stuff back into the carts. It would be quicker to wait the thirty seconds for them to get out of the way, pay for my own stuff in the process and get out in a semi-civilized manner than to shove my cart sideways and attempt to hurdle ten feet of people and carts. And, I figured I could ask the nicer-looking till girl for the bathroom here and possible save myself.
Why, why, would this plan work out for me. Thirty years into this game of life and I’m quite certain my entire life purpose is to be a horrible example.
I literally threw the contents of my cart on the counter, realizing I’d forgotten wrapping paper and grabbing the first one my hand landed on in the box beside me, deftly digging through my purse for my wallet with the other.
Naturally, this girl could not have moved slower. I wanted to kill her. She was bubbly and cheerful and admiring every single bit and bow I was buying, and I honestly didn’t think I could wait one more minute and rudely cut her off by asking if I could please use the bathroom.
“Oooooooo, ohhhhhh, deary, I’m so sorry, but -no…” Big dramatic expression of regret, as though she herself was about to shit her pants. She looked at me a second too long and concern – perhaps disgust – crossed her face. I was sweating. Badly. And sortof panting. My lips were dry, I kept licking them, tears were brimming and I was squeezing my ass cheeks together so tightly I’m sure the burn-equivalent was 40 minutes on a treadmill. The pain in my guts was incredible; I was concentrating SO hard on not unleashing a shitstorm in this dollar store I could barely get through the debit transaction.
Back in the days of cooking-for-family, when I’d make something that looked ‘too healthy’, Babydaddy would refuse to eat it with the joke-reason that it would cause ‘anal-leakage’. I would scoff, annoyed, saying that anal-leakage doesn’t even exist.
Well friends, I’m here to tell you that it certainly does, and it is noooooo fun. I stood, frozen, my legs glued together while this wildly unaware, imperceptive cashier lined my receipts up in the stapler with the dedicated attention of a surgeon, now afraid to move at all for losing control of my own body, as a small yet very alarming, very unwelcome, warmth, if you will, made an appearance in my pants.
If there was ever a moment in my life that I wished for the earth to simply open up and swallow me, this was it. I suddenly realized that this girl was holding my receipt out to me, while I was staring blindly up at the ceiling with my lips pursed and praying for death, and I ripped it out of her hand and flew out the door. I looked wildly from left to right; I knew there were a couple big box stores here, London Drugs and Home something, and I ran in that general direction, (and by ‘ran’ of course I mean hobbled, penguin-like, my legs unable to release their death grip but also propelling me forward with admirable fervor) through the snow and the first set of doors. I blew in like a storm, immediately located the bathroom signs and again ‘ran’, Christmas bags and bobbles bouncing all about me, through the door.
There was no ten-minute nest building here. There was only a blur of bags and clothes as I flew into the first stall, letting go of rather than putting down my bags and being vaguely aware of them skidding all across the floor, yanking my coat up with one hand and my pants down with the other and…
I absolutely destroyed this bathroom.
The job that had started itself was now finishing itself and all I could do was whimper, my head between my knees and my arms gripped round my ankles for dear life. I looked left and noticed for the first time my last-minute wrapping paper; Disney’s Cars. Awesome.
When my bowels finally finished trying to kill me, I tidied myself up, (let this be a lesson for everyone to carry baby wipes in their purse) flushed away the evidence, (yeah, alright, it took a couple) thought about it for only a moment, then peeled off my decimated underwear and flushed them away too.
Finally – finally – I emerged, closing the door quickly behind me lest the Gascon 3000 stank emerge and knock someone out, my eyes downcast and darting left to right as I was absolutely awash with shame, certain everyone knew what I’d just done. I even briefly felt like I should buy something to compensate.
Quick and quiet as a mouse I snuck out, retracing my steps back to the dollar store where I walked calmly up to the counter and casually asked to exchange my wrapping paper. I looked over and saw the skank from before in the same aisle; I waited till I caught her eye, smirk- smiled, and kicked over the box of wrapping paper rolls so they spilled up her aisle. Ha, ha, bitch.
And there you have it, friends. No matter what life lobs at you, take it from me-
You haven’t really lived, until you’ve shit your pants in public.
