👖💩The Devil Wears Disaster Pants

Or, my mortifying lesson in letting go…

Photo by Chris Bridner for Visit Alexandria

The first time I turned my jeans into an adult diaper was on a crisp autumn afternoon in Old Town Alexandria, Virginia, in 2008. 

I was 35.

Until then, I’d been on a 32-year streak of remaining successfully potty trained.

But this is what happened when the bowels broke loose on Dia de Los Disaster Pants…

I’d had a sour stomach and several bent-over bathroom runs the night before.

The next morning, my tummy still had a bad attitude, but I felt even worse about canceling lunch plans with a friend at Hank’s Oyster Bar in Old Town. 

Old Town Alexandria, if you’ve never been, is a cobblestoned, historical enclave on the Potomac River – across from Washington, D.C. – where America’s wig-and-hose-wearing Founding Daddies frolicked. 

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Aside 1:

Before banning drag queens, we should consider that the “Framers of the Constitution” did all that framing in wigs-n-tights with their faces beat to Great Britain and back with foundation, blush and lip stain. Men’s makeup was not revolutionary during The Revolution, but common for the upper crust.

Franklin & Armfield sucked.

Aside 2: 

Old Town Alexandria’s Market Square, current home of City Hall, holds a centuries-old farmer’s market every Saturday. 

Back when George Washington sent his “gentlemen farmer” foodstuffs from nearby Mt. Vernon to the market, merchants were selling more than produce there. They also sold people!

A very effed up farmer’s market, frens.

Today’s City Hall stands on a former slave auction site. Abolitionists and The Underground Railroad were also highly active in Old Town. Worth a trip for history nerds like me. Or, anyone in need of a reality check. 

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I did myself a digress there, dear reader. Back to our original, lowbrow programming.

I know you didn’t come here for a history lesson. You want to know how a grown woman ends up crapping her pants near the nation’s Capitol. Heard, Chef.

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Because Old Town is old, parking spaces for automobiles - and not horse carriages - is a lottery, especially at lunchtime.

I squeezed my car into an alleyway a sizable stroll from the restaurant. 

Here’s exactly what I ordered at Hank’s Oyster Bar:

• A ginger ale to settle my gurgling stomach (smart!)

• Hank’s decadent, dairy-dolloped mac and cheese (dumb!)

I should’ve nibbled a packet of oyster crackers… or nothing at all, because with the check paid and goodbyes hugged, a gurgle in my belly bubbled and roamed around my waistline on my walk back to the car.

Let me set this up for you: 

This walk back was less Dead Man Walking…

…and more Diarrhea Woman Walking.

The cramping made me stop and clench m’cheeks for fear of what might escape.  

Every few seconds the threat would subside; lulling me into a false sense of safety, allowing for a few more delicate steps. 

With my head on a swivel I looked for a safe place to squat but the colonial-townhouse-type buildings towered over me.

Anyone at a window would see my shame (and great squat depth, fwiw). 

Sweating. 

Clenching. 

Panicking. 

I freed the first button on my fly.

I hoped the bubbles of biohazard constricting around my waist would wind their way to a safe space in my intestines and hang out there until I could get home. 

But frens, no matter how hard I fought to hold it inside (and all the fear that came with it), the Universe had other plans for my pants. 

If I couldn’t find my own way to let the toxic shit inside me go, the Gastrointestinal Gods were going to do it for me.

Luckily, I made it to my car.

As I grasped the handle of my door, I thought, “Home free…”

And then…

…my body violently presented the biohazard bill in a way I can only describe as volcanic, unapologetic pipe bursting.

Thank goodness print newspapers were still a thing back then because I drove home with an edition of The Washington Post as my seat protector.

Let’s just say the crossword wasn’t happening that day.

My jeans and shoes were ruined. The collateral damage from ignoring my intuition crumpled in a hot, fuming pile of shame on my floorboard.

They didn’t deserve to go out in an ass assault like that.

I was in shock.

Who walks down the street shitting themselves?

I was ankle deep in diarrhea from ignoring my inner voice.

But, as embarrassed and mortified as I was, I did get instant relief upon release.

I felt like a pantless million bucks. 

Frens, this is what happens when we worry more about disappointing others than doing what’s right for ourselves.

Freeing these gnawing, festering rats of toxicity inside us is the only path to peace. Gotta let that shit go.

Sometimes it’s the only way we’ll create space for a clean pair of pants and lighten the load we carry.

Sometimes it’s the only way home.