I was 7 or 8 years old (read: at least 5 years out of potty training), and I had just put on a brand new outfit and was getting ready to go outside and play.
By outfit, I mean a monochromatic sweatsuit (this particular one was pink) because apparently, those were my jam when I was a kid.
Now, when I was little (and sometimes still today), I would get really excited/nervous about something, and then I’d have to go number two. Because of my fancy, new ensemble and big tree-climbing and/or swing set plans, this was one of those days. I walked outside and was almost to the edge of our big backyard when it hit me.
If I knew what the F word was then (I didn’t until I was 9), I would have said it under my breath like a badass.
I put my tree climbing plans on hold and scurried back to the house. But when I tried to open the back door, it was locked. We did not have doors that locked behind us, so this was certainly surprising, and I started to feel a bit panicky.
I ran-walked to the front door, feeling the tummy pressure more with every step, and it was locked, too.
But wait, my mom was inside!
I rang the bell. And waited.
No answer.
I rang it again and again and again and banged on the door like a psycho ex-girlfriend in training.
Nothing.
Why would my mom do this to me?!, I screamed in my head, and felt my eyes start to well up.
Holding my scrawny little butt, I frantically made my way to the back of the house again and pounded on the door to no avail. Then the tears really started to flow. I was desperate. Abandoned. A motherless child in that moment.
And that’s when I stood there, on the back stoop of my own home, and shat myself whilst crying hysterically in my brand new pink sweatsuit.
I kept knocking half-heartedly through my tears and messy tushy and my mom finally came rushing to the door in a towel. She had been in the shower and we still have no idea how the door locked.
Trying her best not to cry (or laugh) at her unfit parenting, she got me in the tub and promised me a trip to somewhere fancy like Sears to get a new sweatsuit.
And that, my friends…is my traumatic tale.
The closest I’ve come to a similar incident as an adult is when I was making out with this dude in a bar during Dewey Beach Summer ’03 and my roommate came up, pulled me away, and whispered, “That guy shit his pants in a college class.”
Needless to say, we didn’t make out any more, because who can shake that image? Obviously, my friends and I refer to him as Poopy Pants if he ever comes up in convo. And yes, we bring him up in convo just so we can say Poopy Pants.
The reason why I told this tale in the first place is because I was inspired by another incredible, mortifying story: “The Most Embarrassing Private Jet Flight of All Time” (yeah, you can imagine) and it got me reminiscing. And of course, there’s the amazing recollection by a seriously funny female titled “The Fart That (Almost) Altered My Destiny” about…you guessed it…ripping a tootie on a date.
I don’t know what just happened, but I think it’s safe to say we can change the name of this website to Witty + Sh*tty.
LYLAS,
Ashley