I woke up one morning after indulging at an all-you-can-eat Chinese buffet the night before, feeling decidedly “off.” My son, noticing my unusual pallor, remarked, “You don’t look so good. Are you sure you want to go for a run?” I leaned against the counter, clutching my stomach, which was wracked with gas pains. “It’s nothing,” I assured him. “Just a little gassiness from the beef and broccoli. I’ve given birth to three kids without any pain relief, I think I can handle a run.”
Spoiler alert: I couldn’t. What I thought was merely an upset stomach quickly escalated into an unfortunate incident. As I jogged past my neighbors’ homes on that sweltering August morning, I felt the unmistakable shift of a “shart” — that dreadful moment when you think it’s just gas, but it turns into something far messier.
The aftermath was immediately regrettable. Feeling a warm, unwelcome lump in my shorts, I reached back to check, only to discover a sizable mess that made me grateful for the liner in my running shorts. I should’ve known better; after all, I have a somewhat notorious sensitivity to Chinese food. However, in a moment of weakness, I had ignored my limits and indulged far too much.
Not long into my run, I was already a mile away from home when disaster struck. The smell began to follow me, and with no bathroom in sight, I was left with no choice but to keep moving. My only hope was to find a secluded spot in the nearby woods. I certainly didn’t want to knock on a neighbor’s door and risk the embarrassment of asking to use their toilet — all while knowing the mess I was carrying.
As I contemplated my options, I realized that removing my shorts and underwear in the middle of a hot, humid forest would be a Herculean task. Imagine trying to shimmy out of those layers while simultaneously keeping the “dumpling” from sliding down your legs. Those who manage this feat deserve an award for their skills.
To add to my discomfort, the dried oak leaves scattered on the ground were less than friendly, and the mosquitoes were out in full force, making the entire situation that much worse. I had never felt so humiliated, despite having three kids who regularly try to embarrass me. Honestly, I can’t look at an oak tree without a hint of trauma surfacing.
As I continued my run, I realized I couldn’t even call for help — my dignity was in tatters. I chose to channel my inner strength and finish the run, hoping to scrub away the experience when I got home. But as fate would have it, as soon as I started running again, I was hit by another wave of misfortune. I had no choice but to stop and awkwardly pretend to admire a rock while cars zoomed by.
In the end, I made it home, only to be met by my three kids, who looked horrified at the sight of me. “I had an accident,” I admitted, “and if you ever tell anyone, there will be consequences.” They didn’t even crack a smile; the reality of their mother’s faux pas was far too shocking.
While I scrubbed away the remnants of my ordeal in the shower, my son, ever the practical one, knocked on the door and offered me a garbage bag for my clothes. In that moment, I felt the weight of my poor choices, wishing I had listened to him. “I’m fine,” I insisted, scrubbing away and feeling the shame wash over me.
To this day, my children love to bring up my little incident as a joke or a bargaining chip. The memory sticks with me, like bits of oak leaves lodged where they shouldn’t be. If I could turn back time, I would definitely heed my son’s warning.
It’s been a while since that event, and we’ve all moved on, but let my experience serve as a lesson: you can’t always outrun gas. It’ll sneak up on you when you least expect it, leading to some truly unfortunate circumstances, especially when bugs are around. And trust me, if your kids find out, they’ll hold it over you forever.
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Summary
This humorous yet cringe-worthy account of a running mishap highlights the importance of listening to your body and the lessons learned from embarrassing situations.