Ziplocked and Loaded: A Poop Story

24 hours earlier…

Mike and I are making our way downtown, driving fast, faces pass, headed to Georgia. About three hours in, the urge hits — a bowelquake.

Like a true American, my body refuses to perform in public restrooms. It’s like TSA for poop: “Sorry, ma’am, you’re not cleared for takeoff.” At our midway stop, I try. Nothing. Just sitting there in a Chevron bathroom, praying for a miracle.

We finally make it to Georgia, drop a couch at my brother’s, and immediately dive into a full day of errands. I’m so busy that I forget about the ticking time bomb in my intestines.

We barely have enough time to swing by my mom’s to change before heading to dinner with Mike’s friend and his wife. At this point, it’s been a full 24 hours since my body first sounded the poop alarm — but ignorance is bliss.

Fast forward to the next morning. I wake up at the buttcrack of dawn to drop Mike at the airport, then kill time around Atlanta waiting for sunrise and a photoshoot with my pregnant friend and her family.

I’m vibing. I find parking in a bougie part of ATL where people wear matching Lululemon sets to walk their overpriced doodles. I grab some Chick-fil-A, sit back, and chill. Life is good.

Then. It. Hits.

Fifteen minutes before my friend arrives, and I get hit with a wave of Oh God, oh no, this is happening. It’s not a gentle reminder — it’s a full-blown gastrointestinal DEFCON 1.

I start sweating Chick-fil-A sauce. I consider driving to the nearest bathroom — but Chick-fil-A is 8 minutes away, and by the time I get there, successfully convince my butthole to open, and get back, the shoot would be ruined. My friend is on a tight schedule. There’s no time.

Meanwhile, the situation has escalated. We’re officially prairie-dogging. (If you don’t know what that means, for the love of everything holy, Google it.)

I’m frantically scanning the car for options. My Chick-fil-A cup? Nope, still full of Sprite. Other trash? Empty. I just cleaned the damn car.

Wait. I remember — I added a gallon-sized Ziploc bag for napkin storage. A gallon-sized bag. God bless my mildly anxious preparation tendencies.

The internal dialogue:

“No. No, you’re not really about to…”

“Girl, you don’t have a choice.”

I dump the napkins onto the passenger seat, crack the windows and sunroof like I’m about to hotbox my own shame, and start making space.

Chair back. Pants down. I’m doing a full Cirque du Soleil act trying to position this Ziploc. One corner clutched in the front, one in the back — engineering marvel.

My stomach contracts like I’m in labor. I’m gripping the headrest. Breathing through it.

My friend texts:

“Pulling up!”

AND THEN IT HAPPENS.

A molten tsunami of regret and Chick-fil-A explodes into that bag. I am giving birth to the devil’s own smoothie.

There I am: half-naked, squatting in the front seat, holding a gallon bag of diarrhea.

I somehow wipe (bless the fast food napkins), spot a trash can 15 feet away, check the coast for witnesses, and make the most shameful dash of my life. I toss that bag into the dog poop bin like an Olympic shot-putter.

(Yes, I took a photo. No, you may not see it.)

I sprint back to my car, blasting the A/C like it can erase trauma. Windows down. Soul escaping my body.

Right as I get seated — my friend pulls up next to me. There’s no way she doesn’t smell the sins I’ve committed.

The end.

This was originally posted here.