My morning routine is constant and simple. I wake, brush my teeth, eat cereal, and play games. We tend to leave at 8 am. A few days ago I turned off my game and poured out my cereal milk in the sink. Suddenly, despite my routine, I was hit with the urge to "take care of business." If you're a "How I Met Your Mother Fan," you may better understand the phrase "read a magazine."
Fast forward 5 minutes.
We're in the car heading to the female's drop off point in SOMA. Out of nowhere (but clearly somewhere beneath my head), my nostrils are hit with the faint, but unmistakeable stench of poo. With every passing minute the smell wasn't going away and I began to freak out. Then, at the age of 26, the horrid thought crept into my mind:
Did I just shit my pants?
This was an honest to god concern, not just a passing thought. Think about that for a second. The last time I crapped my pants was approximately 24 years ago. It's a startling realization and one that still sends shivers down my spine. I legitimately hadn't planned to begin crapping my pants again until at least another 50 years.
I'm normally talkative in the morning. I'm a morning person. A "Chatty Cathy." My female isn't, so after 20 minutes of silence she grew concerned. When I pulled over to drop her off she asked "Is everything okay? You're awfully quiet."
"Well..." I mumbled.
"I think I shit my pants."
She didn't respond. She just calmly leaned over and sniffed about the height of my head.
"I don't smell anything," she said. She kissed me on the cheek and told me to have a good day.
The next 40 minutes were hell. My work commute is slow and laborious with several pockets of brief speed followed by 10 mile per hour slowness. I didn't move in my seat. After parking I ran straight to the bathroom. No stop to put down my laptop and gym bag. There just wasn't time!
Upon inspection, it was clear I hadn't shit my pants. This was good! I mean, I didn't shit my pants. But the question remained -- from where had this poo emerged? And where was it now?
I went to work at my desk. With morning coffee in hand I leaned back and rested my foot on my knee to ponder the day's labors. It was then I found the poo. I apparently stepped in a massive pile of dog shit, yet I don't own a dog. I live in the middle of San Francisco where, unlike France, people are remarkably good about cleaning up after their hounds.
I removed the offending shoe and took it to the bathroom. I soon found that mere water wasn't enough to dislodge this loaf. I "borrowed" a plastic knife from the kitchen and proceeded to conduct surgery on my sneaker in the bathroom sink. Unfortunately, I found that my shoe was entirely soaked. This wouldn't have been so bad if I didn't need to pee.
Let me tell you, the one legged urinal trip is a lot of fun.