Recently, JoJo (the missus) informed me that a friend of hers wanted to meet me since we’d never been introduced. She also happened to be the person that was the grand prize winner in my book/coffee mug giveaway when MKPI Odd Case Files: The Cow & The Coven came out. Not that I’m saying that to plug my book. But, seriously…
Buy the book. Love the book. Review it on Amazon and Goodreads. Tell everyone you meet.
Anyhoozles…I’m not an incredibly social creature–as the missus knows–but I agreed. The person seemed like she’d be very sweet (spoiler alert: she was), and not at all serial killer-ish (spoiler alert: I’m writing this, aren’t I?). So, we made a coffee date–’cause that’s what adults do when they want to meet each other. I mean, I would’ve been happy with the standard play date of the ball pit at Chuck E. Cheese, but JoJo insisted that we had to be reasonable adults and save the ball pit for the second play date.
Fair enough. I guess.
So we met the person in question…but I’m not going to bury the lead here. JoJo thought the first meeting/introduction was a great time to bring up the fact that I shit my pants once while driving my car.
After a few seconds of the person nervously giggling, and a lot of eye rolling from me–I relayed the story to this brand-fucking-new acquaintance of how I came to shit myself as a legal, car-driving adult. I mean, JoJo already put my ass on blast (pun intended), so the only way out was through. So, let’s talk about shitting my pants as an adult.
About 15 years ago, I shit my pants while driving my car. That much you know. Why, when, how, and whether or not it changed me for life (spoiler alert: it did) are the things you probably want to know.
First things first, I didn’t know that I was lactose intolerant. Okay? I mean, sure, there were signs throughout my childhood and teen years. Whenever I was growing up and my parents forced me to drink milk, my tummy hurt a little. A bit of grumbling, a need to “go to the bathroom”, blah blah blah. But nothing that screamed “lactose is slowly trying to kill you”. Okay? I just thought I was sensitive–because that’s what parents said about kids in the 70’s, 80’s and 90’s. You needed to stop being a little bitch. Maybe not in those terms, but that was basically the jist.
So I ate soft cheeses, drank milk when forced, and got on with my day. My agonizing day. And. I. Sucked. It. Up.
Fast forward to me at age 23. I had been out running a bunch of errands. Ya’ know, adulting. I was a might peckish, so I stopped at a Wendy’s to get a lil sumpin’ sumpin. Just enough to tide me over until I was able to get home and have something decent to eat. Then I remembered that Wendy’s had Frostys–which are the best thing ever–and something I had never had too many issues with before–so I ordered one (I’d never eaten one on an empty stomach before, though…). Large, vanilla, just a spoon please. They’re like a buck. Cheap and delicious. Okay?
So I scarf the Frosty down in record time, and get on with the rest of my errands. Of course, like usual, my tummy wasn’t happy and a little grumbly, but nothing I hadn’t dealt with many times in the past. After about 30 minutes, I’m in my car, after my last errand, and I’m merging onto the highway. I’m a good 15 minutes from home. And I happen to notice that this particular tummy pain is different. I’m really starting to hurt, and it feels like Cthulhu is having an underground gay rave in muh gut.
So as to not get too graphic–let’s tell this story in gifs:
Yeah. I honestly was sat in my own…mess…10 miles from home, in traffic, thinking “Yeah. I literally just shit my pants. That’s exactly what happened. You shit yourself, Allen. Hope you’re proud of yourself. You can’t go back to your old life now.” Only, I did have to go back to my old life–’cause that’s where my shower and clean underwear and pants were.
This wasn’t an “Oh, my God, hold it, hold it, don’t shit yourself” moment, either. This was an “Oh, hold it…my asshole just opened up and spilled forth” moment. Not to gross anyone out–but here we are. My life is an open book.
So, to make a long story short, a few trips to the doctor, explaining my history with dairy products (and the doctor side-eyeing me every time I mentioned tummy pain when ingesting dairy), and I found out I’m moderately lactose intolerant. Which he was amazed I hadn’t figured out already. Good news–I can still eat hard cheeses, Lactaid, certain ice creams, etc., without worrying if a bathroom is nearby. Basically, if Brie is on the menu, I’m eating it on my couch in sweats.
Until next time…