I Shit My Pants At Work

The only thing worse than shitting in a stall designed for an 8-year-old is not making it there in time

Praying, for the first time in my life, that I can hold it just a little while longer

Dreams are a double-edged sword. For every fantastic dream, like the one where I hit a game-winning bomb over Fenway’s Green Monster, I have at least a dozen graphic depictions of my worst fears. For me, these tend to be cyclical, with one nightmare being prevalent for a season before the screenwriters in my brain move on to the next one.

Yet, there has been one narrative that has been a constant for as long as I can remember — me shitting my pants in a wide variety of awkward social situations. Sometimes I’m on a date, other times I’m on a crowded subway train. One time I was giving a eulogy in a pure white suit. But most often I’m at work. Dreaming about work already feels like a complete waste of sleep — I already spend too much damn time at the office — but adding in my greatest fear just seems cruel. Then one day it actually happened. 

It is here that I feel I should add a small disclaimer about the graphic content to follow, but you’re the one who clicked on an article titled “I Shit My Pants At Work.” 

I was substitute teaching at a small school in suburban New Jersey. It was only my second week, so I was still trying to settle in and find my groove. As a sub, it can be difficult to learn the exact protocol of how the school operates, particularly when it comes to whether or not you can leave the kids alone for any amount of time. 

My class was a group of very well-behaved seventh graders. But as good as they were, they were still tweens, meaning the odds that they would set a desk on fire were about equal to the odds that they would continue quietly working on their project. I didn’t want to take a chance. So I held it.

I was doing a pretty good job for the first half of the period. I went through a Powerpoint covering Operation Barbarossa and likely taught the kids a little more about the epic bender Stalin went on during the first days of the Nazi occupation — specifically how his delay to act led to the loss or capture of hundreds of thousands of soldiers — than the curriculum called for, but that’s the Charlie Connell Difference™. But around the time I started to discuss the encircling of Soviet troops near Kyiv, my stomach started gurgling. You know that feeling when your stomach gets bubbly and you pray that you’re the only one who can hear it? Judging by the raised eyebrows, wide eyes, and muffled giggles of the kids in the front row, I knew my prayers were for naught. 

Panic didn’t set in immediately and I continued talking for a few minutes. I took a hopeful look at the clock assuming the period must be almost over. Only three minutes had passed, meaning the bell wasn’t going to save me for another 17. I hurried and wrapped up the lecture and told the kids to get a head start on the essay due on Friday. The time for multi-tasking was over; I needed to dedicate my full attention to my intestinal distress. 

Sitting in an office chair at the back of the room, I suffered in silence. I may have even reached a state akin to meditation as I tried to prevent my mind from thinking of earthly desires, like the cool comfort of a toilet seat. Sweat was starting to bead on my brow. The gurgling was nearly constant. If only I could squeeze out a fart I’d be able to buy some time, but that would also be a gamble I didn’t think I could afford. 

With eight minutes to the bell, it became obvious — I wasn’t going to make it. I needed to spring into action immediately — much like the Soviets should have in the early hours of the Nazi invasion, I’ll be damned if I make the same mistake Stalin did! — or my worst nightmare was going to come true. I stood up. My bowels did not rise with me.

For a split second, I was frozen in place. Could I stand here motionless for the rest of the period and get away with it? Obviously not. It took every part of my being to keep my face blank as I slowly, very slowly, waddled like a penguin to the door. “I’ll be right back,” I told the kids who I was certain could smell my fear. In the weeks I’d spent with this class they had never shown any interest in my movements when I wasn’t at the front of the class. Now every single eye was on me, following each awkward movement I made.  

Once in the hall and out of their sight, I did that thing where you try to move as quickly as possible while keeping your upper body as rigid as possible. As long as nobody looked at my frantically moving legs, I appeared to be calm and collected. I made a beeline to the classroom next door, sticking my head in the door and asking if the teacher could watch over my class for a second. I don’t recall waiting for an answer before continuing my race to the bathroom. 

“Please be empty, please be empty, pleasebeemptygoddammit!” I repeated under my breath. Thankfully, it was. I was able to rush into a stall, throw down my pants, squat down on the child-sized toilet, and then unleash hell. I’m still unable to describe the wave of relief that washed over me properly. It’s probably hyperbole, and a refutation of my staunch atheism, to say I felt as if I had been rescued by the Almighty herself, but that’s the closest I can come to explaining the experience. 

There should be a plaque erected next to this comically tiny toilet to commemorate the salvation it offered me.

The bad news was that my underwear was completely soiled and needed to be tossed, but the pants were unscathed. I was going to get through this.

Gossip like that will spread like wildfire and middle schoolers are not known for holding on to a gem like that and playing the long con. For the rest of the week, I was convinced I’d walk into my classroom to see a turd drawn on the whiteboard, or my name changed to Mr. Crapnell, but the other shoe never dropped. Nobody knew. 

We’ve all had shitty days at work, but this one was a little too literal for my tastes. But like a shellshocked soldier dusting himself off in his foxhole, I had faced certain doom — schools usually don’t bring back subs with a history of shitting themselves — and survived. I had gotten away with something I shouldn’t have and I felt invincible, at least when it comes to pants defecation. I know that feeling of invincibility is fleeting, but goddamn did it feel good. I can’t be the only one to have experienced such a harrowing ordeal, can I?