There Were No Old People To Blame

Today the yummy, but apparently tainted, grilled cheese & tomato sandwich from High Noon and the perpetual Red Line delays conspired against me in the most inconvenient and horrible way.

Today at work around 2 p.m. my stomach began crying, bubbling, and generally dying inside me. I ran off to the bathroom to relieve myself and the growing pressure. I then made my way to the CVS, butt cheeks clinched, where I bought an army of anti-poo liquids and pills.

Finally, thinking the coast was clear, I boarded a train home. But in typical Red Line fashion, my screaming tummy was trapped inside me while I was trapped inside a tunnel (due to “mechanical difficulties”).

I couldn’t help it.

I swear.

So that girl on the Red Line that smelled of mint, but mostly of shit, was me.

I was the mom with the kid with a dirty diaper sans the kid and I was the one wearing the dirty diaper, only the diaper was my panties. With my poop in them.

This of course is hard to explain to the Metro Man. All I knew was that I couldn’t make it all the way home. I mean I hadn’t made it more than three agonizingly long stops. The elusive metro bathrooms are open in case of emergency and what else constitutes an emergency other than a grown woman shitting her pants? Yes, actively shitting her pants.

Every move, every breath, every movement worsened my sad state. It’s not like a wee bit is set free and your stomach suddenly feels content. No. It wants to take all of my innards and shit them all over the floor. Now!

Dear Metro Man show me the way to the magical metro bath. But all that came out was, “I need. The. Oh God. Please.” My halted sentence was punctuated by my furiously loud intestines.

I was the quintessential olfactory and auditory hell patron.

And that was the day I pooped myself on metro.