Monday, December 29, 2014

The day I shat myself... Rough draft

            My entire life my mother always told me that I was a 45 year old man since I was 5.  Anyone that has ever crossed paths with me could vouch for this.  I have always tried to take care of myself.  If I were allowed to I would probably have changed my own diaper.  As a kid, when guests were over, after a long meal I would offer them a cigarette.  It was the 80s.  It sounded less horrible then.

            It was in the 4th grade the first time I flew on an airplane.  I was 9, Boyz II Men were still boys, Queen Latifah still rapped and Madonna closer to the age of them boys in her music videos.  It was another time.  It was a little bit before we got dial-up.  If you don’t know what that means, look it up.  Anyway, our class spent most of the year raising money to go on a field trip to Sacramento.  After selling as many chocolate bars as our families could bare, our entire class went for just a day from our home base in San Diego to Sactown. 

            On this trip lots of parents came to chaperone their children on this trip to our state capital.  I was one of maybe 4 kids in our 30 person class who’s parent did not come on this trip.  At this time my mother worked 7 days a week and very hard to provide for me.  I packed up my walkman, fannypack, fruit by the foot candy and left for the trip.  I was assigned to hang out for the duration of the day with my friend Trey and his mother as my chaperone.

            The flight was 80 minutes long.  It was the longest of my life.  It seemed like eternity to little me, yet I only recently remembered this happened.  There was a point between landing and reaching the terminal where I lost it.  I don’t know why but I just lost bowel function.  Usually when I say this I am kidding.  In this situation I am not.  I was a cute, big-headed kid that shat his pants.  Even then I was a grown ass man because I took care of my shit most literally by myself.  I didn’t tell a soul that my pants were filled more than the bathing suits on “Bay Watch.”  I not only didn’t tell anyone, I also didn’t make a scene of any kind.  I spent the entire day walking around in my own shit, went panning for gold because that was what people did in Sacramento then, went to museums, took another flight back to San Diego and my lips were sealed.  No one knew.  Not even my mother.  The second I got home I scrubbed and washed my clothing so no one could be the wiser.  I figured that there was no reason to involve anyone else in my shit, a thought that I would echo later.  The interesting question is did the people on this trip have no sense of smell? 

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