If you’re of the faint of stomach, this post may not be for you. Consider yourself warned.
The inevitable finally happened two weeks ago. The dreaded “Runner’s Deuce” (as my charming older brother has titled it) went from being a butt-squeezing frustration into an all-out nightmare.
My run began innocently enough. I was taking a very short jog – only three miles – and was out just over a mile when I got a strange pain in my stomach. At first I thought I was experiencing a cramp, and employed my usual decramping techniques: breathing deeply, slowing my pace, concentrating on not feeling pain, and trying to calculate how much water I’d imbibed the day before. Nothing helped, and I was reduced to walking.
As I peetered into a walk, I suddenly realized that this feeling wasn’t a cramp at all, but rather a bout of Runner’s D. Oh crap. Literally.
The route I had taken left me no options for relieving myself if I backpeddled, so I went forth with a lack of glee but a cavity of hope. A mile later (and a lot of walking) later though, and I finally came upon an establishment with a restroom. However, upon walking in (and looking like pale, pained, sweaty death on toast), I was denied use of the facilities. Even when I promised to come back and buy something horribly expensive was I politely but firmly told “Customers only.” Strike one.
Strike two was across the street at the Scottish Rites Temple. Apparently those that engage in the rites of Scotland are also opposed to non-customers using their facilities. Feeling like I might burst (literally, unfortunately) into the most humiliating moment of my adult life, I stuck my bat up in the air and thought about what strike three might be.
As fate would have it, I swung and I hit on the third pitch. I had limped up to a residential tower in hopes of begging the doorman to let me into the lobby when I ran into my new employer, Andie. Feeling a bit stalkerish as she asked me what in the world I was doing standing in front of her, I explained I needed to “vomit” (as telling my new employer that I was about to lose the contents of my stomach from the other end seemed endlessly more embarrasssing). She was house-sitting in the building, and offered to allow me to use her bathroom.
Seven floors in an elevator never took so long.
I charged into the bathroom, threw on the sink to block out any squeaky noise that might blow my cover, and felt relief like I have never relieved before.
Unfortunately, that’s not the end of this poo-riffic tale.
After idle chit-chat and a lot of shaking (I felt very strange), I eventually left my manager to her own devices and dog-sitting duties to walk home. She had offered me a ride, but I had said I was close. Which I was…had I been running. Apparently, walking places takes a lot longer than running places. What would have been less than ten minutes on a run took me 2o as a casual-paced walker.
The strange stomach pains returned as a I started to jog again, and at the corner of my street, I had to once again find myself walking instead of running. I tightened my stomach muscles and briskly walked towards the front door of my building. Just as I fumbled into my sports-bra for my key, the very unseemly (but much anticipated) event happened: I Runner’s D’d in my pants.
I wish I had advice for someone else who might one day find themselves in this situation, but honestly, I do not, other than please dear God find yourself a bathroom before it gets to this point. I’ve been lucky far too many times and come across far too many strangely opened bathrooms – I knew it was only a matter of time before my luck ran out.
On the bright side, every day since the day of the unfortunate event has been rather delightful. Whenever my boyfriend asks how I’m doing, I say, “Well, I haven’t pooped my pants yet today…so great!”