Before I begin this entry, let me share with you a belief that I hold: All adults, regardless of how smart or funny or good looking they are, have at one point or another in their respectable adult lives either pooped their pants or come dangerously close (whether it be from a case of “fart with follow through” or “prairie dogging” or just a particularly bad lot of shellfish).
Small digression: this post is clearly going to be about poop, so if you are easily offended, um, don’t read posts entitled Senorita Poopy Pants.
I have on two occasions been a victim of adult poopy pants disorder. The first was several years ago when I was suffering through a terrible, terrible case of food poisoning. It was hands down the sickest I have ever been. I was living in a tiny studio apartment at the time and, after spending the night throwing up every thing in my belly except my spleen, I was finally feeling well enough to lay on my bed. I was laying there when I heard a whimpering sound coming from my bowels.
“Oh, oh no” said my lower intestines, “there is something in here. We must get rid of it. Rid of it now!”
My bed was about 15 feet from the bathroom and well, I just didn’t make it. I also just didn’t care. I was so sick that I just took my pajama bottoms off, threw them in the trash and then went back to bed…and called my mom to tell her I was dying and that she needed to bring me Gatorade (if you know me in real life, you know that calling my mom for help is a very big deal. I very, very, very highly value my familial independence).
The second time, I was victim of an all too common complaint from runners, the trots (yeah, that’s a link. Don’t worry, it is SFW and is not some terrible Google image search).
While this blog is about my becoming an athlete…it is also about me becoming an athlete again. I’ve been pretty sedentary the last 4 or 5 years but before this there was a period of about 2 years where I was running pretty regularly(hee, regular.). My best friend’s husband and I would run together several times a week, usually in the evening. I’ve never been a big morning exercise fan, but once the summer came (I was living in Arizona at the time) we decided to do a couple of runs (hee, runs) in the morning.
We had just finished a brisk 3 mile run and I was headed home to get ready for work. I was three miles from home when I got the urgent poop 60 second warning.
“Attention, attention. This is your bowel system speaking. Pooping will commence in T-minus 60 seconds. Repeat, pooping is eminent. All systems are go. ”
Never have I clenched so hard or driven so fast. I made it home, barely, but just missed having totally clean pants by about .45 seconds.
All of this background leads me to the point of today’s blog- why I did my first bit of speed work since I started this new athletic endeavour.
My husband, the marathon runner, runs a lot (duh) and he runs various kinds of workouts. Hill repeats, intervals, speed work on the track, etc. I am still a person whose walk to jog ratio is still much more walk that jog, so speed work is not something that has been on my agenda.
This morning Mr. Monkey had a 2 hour run planned. I had a slow walk/jog recovery outing planned. We both went to the same trail in town, him an hour before me, and I took the baby in the jogging stroller.
I walked, the kiddo ate puffs and Cheerios, and when I came to a small playground about a 1/2 mile from the trailhead, we stopped.
I put the baby in the swing and for 25 seconds he was in total bliss, squeeling and laughing. Then, it dawned on him. There was sand at this playground. Sand, sand that he could pick up and dump on things: the slide, the swings, his hair. At this point, I believe his internal monolouge sounded something like this:
“Sand, sand! Sand, sand, sand, sand, kick, kick, arch back, out of swing, get out now, sand, sand, sand, sand SANDDDDDDDDDDDDDD!!!!!!”
Loving mother that I am, I let him get out of the swing so he could dump sand on his own head. Then, I felt it. That horrible, swirly, rumbly feeling. The poop warning light went on. I looked frantically around. I spotted it-salvation! A port-o-potty! How fortitous for me!
Then, I remembered Captain Sandy Head. There was no possible way the jogging stroller would fit in the port-o-potty and no possible way I was going to leave him outside by himself. I thought for a split second- take him in? Gah! No.
I knew I’d have to make a run for it.
I grabbed him, much to his dismay (baby’s internal monologue at this moment “Huh? What’s all this? The stroller? Again? She must be mad! We’ve only just got here. Bloody Hell” For some reason, he got all British, he was so befuddled), and I ran.
I ran, clenched, desperate, for the whole 1/2 mile. It may, seriously be the fastest run I’ve done yet. I passed a few friendly people on the way, people who waved and cheerfully said “Good morning!”. I grimaced and said “ugnh!” as I waddle ran by. The baby threw Cheerios.
The good news- I made it to the parking lot, to the large and clean women’s restroom. God bless the Rotary Club volunteers who come clean it every day. By the time Michael finished his run, I was feeling fine, cool and collected. I realized that nobody had to know that I almost pooped my pants. And then I though, No, the people who read my blog deserve to know, so they won’t feel so bad when their poopy pants day comes (oh, and it will come, someday, just you wait).
Edited to add: I just realized that this is my longest blog post ever and it could of course just be edited down to say: I thought I might poop my pants, but I ran fast, so I didn’t. The end.
But, don’t you feel like you just know me so much better now? Sharing is caring people.