Hold on to your hats, ladies and gentlemen! It’s time for LiLu’s TMI Thursday.

TMI Thursday

Well, it’s TMI Thursday, guys. And TMI this will be.

And Rebecca? If you puss out on me? I will travel to Arizona and kick your tushy.

This, dear readers, is a story about poop. Twice. Well, sort of. Let’s just say I’m going to ease you into it, mkay?

As most of you probably know, I’ve been doing a lot of working out this week. My first post on In It To Gym It was cathartic. I decided THAT was the day. I was going to start taking care of my physical self. So I waited approximately two days and THEN started. What? I’ve been a procrastinator my whole life, you think I’m going to change now? Unlikely.

You can read my post on the first day of Jillian Michaels’s 30-Day Shred here.

Sunday afternoon, after I started working out, I claimed to have found Jillian’s master plan. Making my arms so tired/sore that I couldn’t lift a fork to my mouth. Well, on Monday, I discovered that the plan had a…very unfortunate side effect.

You see, I was in the middle of a Dancing with the Stars Latin Dance Cardio blah blah blah video, when I had. to. stop. Because I had to poop. So stop I did. No amount of Maksim sexy hips was going to keep me going.

I went into the bathroom, plopped myself down on the toilet and proceeded to do my business. Well, not much of it, really, but that has nothing to do with the story. When I was done, I carefully (sore muscles, remember) reached over to get some toilet paper and then discovered a HUGE problem. My arms were too tired and sore to WIPE MY OWN ASS. Legit, I sat there for a few minutes trying to figure out what to do. Obviously, I couldn’t two-hand it. Aside from logistics, both arms were EQUALLY sore. The only answer was to do the best I could and then hop in the shower.

Not exactly a long-term solution, but it worked. I was reminded though, about a story I ALMOST told you for a TMI Thursday a while back. This one is worse, folks, so feel free to stop reading. It’s still about poop. It is, in fact, the story of the time I shit my pants. AS AN ADULT.

I used to work in new home sales. For the uninitiated, that means I worked in a model home, showing people floorplans and drawings of houses they could build from the ground up. No, I was NOT a realtor. I worked for the people who built the houses. I did this for about six years before college. It was fun, but I can’t sell things for a living any more. It makes my soul hurt.

Anyway, I spent most of my days in model homes, just waiting for people to come in to see me. Weekdays were usually really slow, but weekends were enough to make your head spin. One quiet Tuesday afternoon (or some weekday, I don’t really remember, as I’ve been trying to block this from my mind since it happened), I was minding my own business, hanging out, when I heard (and felt) the distinct rumblings of something NOT GOOD happening in my intestines.

Before I could get to the bathroom, though, I heard the beep-beep-beep of the security system telling me that someone had come to look at a house!

Um. Uh oh.

I plastered a smile on my face and walked (with my butt cheeks clenched as much as possible) out to greet them. Generally, I would take customers around the house, pointing out the super awesome features, most of which were upgrades beyond their wildest imaginations. That day, I was thinking, “How can I avoid taking them up the stairs?!? GET THEM OUT OF HERE MY ASS IS ABOUT TO EXPLODE OH MY GOD WHAT AM I GOING TO DO?!?!?!?!?!?”

We were at Defcon 1.

I managed, through clenched teeth (with sweat starting to form on my brow), to show them around the downstairs area. I gave them a packet with floorplans and sent them upstairs to explore on their own.
I still couldn’t go to the bathroom, mind you, but at least I knew I wouldn’t let one loose in their faces on the way up the stairs. I went back to my office and stood behind my desk, tapping my foot, hoping I would make it.

RUMBLE

Despite my clenched cheeks, the lava in my ass was about to come forth. I was paralyzed. One step, and I would lose all control.

I could hear them coming back down the stairs. The sweat on my brow was dripping in my eyes.
Grateful to be rid of the annoying sales lady, they wandered around the kitchen again and then started making their way to the door. Normally, I would have to accost them and blah blah buy a house from me you know you want to it will be great. Not today.

Holding my breath, standing as still as possible, I heard the beep-beep-beep. I let out a sigh of relief. AND a fountain of diarrhea. In my pants. In the middle of my office.

In my WHITE PANTS. (Because of COURSE I’d be wearing white pants. I haven’t worn white pants since that day, I can assure you.)

In a panic, I ran to the bathroom to relieve myself. And to assess the damage. And oh, it was bad. I still had three hours of work left, and my white pants were now an unfortunate chocolate color in the ass region.
I took them off and tried, fruitlessly, to rinse them off under the faucet. I had no choice but to put them back on. I couldn’t exactly run around the office with no pants on (although, really, wouldn’t that make work so much more enjoyable?). So I sat, for the last three hours of work, in my wet poopy pants.

One other person came in. The dance I had to do to NOT turn around backwards and let him see my ass was impressive. Not surprisingly, he didn’t buy a house from the crazy lady who smelled just a little bit like poop.

That definitely makes the list of my most mortifying days.