I disgraced a city and myself

Recently found the pod, and listening to all the poop stories in the backlog I couldn't help but share.

To set the scene, I (22 F at the time) was visiting my long-distance on and off situationship. He (27 M at the time) (yes these red flags have since been acknowledged) didn't take time off of work when I visited, so I would have the days to myself to do as I pleased. Getting bored of reading books at the apartment complex, I decided I wanted to explore the city a bit.

I started my morning with a doughnut and a delicious cold brew, exploring parks, shops and art installations throughout the city. All was well in my world. I called my mom to chat and catch up as I walked around, just me and the open sidewalks. As we were chatting, I felt something shift in my stomach.

The possibility of pooing myself did not even cross my mind. It was outside the realm of possibility. There was no way my bowels would betray me. I was arrogant and naive.

I start frantically reading signs searching for a bathroom. I realize I cannot multitask, and I need a bathroom yesterday. I hang up on my mom and frantically scan the block for a Starbucks or something, but I had unfortunately wound up in the middle of the financial district (in the banking capital of America no less).

Then it happened.

A lot of it.

On the sidewalk, it happened to me. What I believed was The Impossible.

Now, to be fair, if I had to choose an outfit that would be perfect for shitting myself in, I suppose that was exactly what I was wearing. Cropped leggings, a sports bra and a cheap zip up sweatshirt.

The tightness of the leggings compressed the poop and kept it contained, so my shit did not thwack onto the sidewalk. I was able to waddle into the nearest building.

An elegant lobby with marble floors and a security desk and huge windows. I waddle over to the desk and ask for a restroom. I am holding my butt to keep the poop securely in my pants until I reach the safety of a bathroom stall.

The bathroom was just up the escalator! So I grab my bum firmly and wiggle my way to the base of the escalator, avoiding eye contact with the security guards who wore suits stationed by the doors.

I finally get to the bathroom and am ill equipped to address the mess. My only tools were toilet water and paper towels, and I did the best I could. I will not dwell on this part.

Once it was as good as it was going to get, I tied the cheap sweatshirt around my waist in order to cover the crime scene. But there is another obstacle before me: I am two miles away from the apartment, covered in poop and toilet water. It would be an incredibly unpleasant walk, and an Uber was out of the question.

So, I rented a Lime scooter and scooted my way across the city to the apartment. I remember the breeze in my hair, the sun on my skin, the urgency in my heart as I zipped by pedestrians who had no idea I was covered in my own poo. By the time they might have smelled what happened, I was already gone.