I have recently gotten drunk and told some funny stories to Stephanie. She made me promise to write them down, to be honest, and to let go. So all week long, this past week, I have been trying to think of the best way to tell the tale of how I shit my pants on picture day in nursery school.

Thursday night Stephanie and I talked some more. As usual, I walked away inspired, and drunk. The night didn�t end when she left. And by the time I did make it home, I was VERY drunk. Friday was tough. Though my recent hangover prevention recipe (3 Advil, a Revive Vitamin water, and a cheese sandwich or three hotdogs) worked like a charm, my stomach was doing flips all day. I had a serious case of what my mom would call, “the runs.” I must have gone to the bathroom twelve times before the 6:30pm when I left. The sharp, shooting pains in my stomach were presumably cause by built up gas, and although I normally don�t have any trouble passing that sort of thing, I was having trouble, and I was very uncomfortable.

That night I kept plans to meet my good friend Rob to watch some awesome Mui Thai kickboxing in a youth center in SoHo. It was awesome. Afterwards, at around 11pm I made my way home. I took the train, which is really rare for me at that time of night.

During the walk home from the train station to my apartment, which is only about 2 blocks, I answered a call from my friend Jay. We talked about nothing for a few minutes, until I interrupted the conversation with my final release of the gas from the whole day. First one was great. Second one was heavenly. Third one, well, I pushed a little more than I would have liked. And then it happened. 25 years later, on my short walk home from the train, on the phone with my friend Jay, on the night where I planned to write my story of shitting my pants in nursery school on picture day, I shit may pants. Yes, I wrote it. This past Friday night, I shit my pants. I am not kidding. I wish I were. I blasted “the runs” all over myself, and then walked home the remainder half-a-block, taking obviously shorter steps that before. I told Jay. He was an indirect witness. He laughed. I laughed. I got home finally, and I took a shower. Oh the irony of my life.

So now you might now be very curious about how I did shit my pants 25 years ago. Well, it�s a very simple story really.

I was a cute, relatively artistic, outgoing, 4 or 5 year old, attending the very small, catholic nursery school, under a church in Tottenville town in Staten Island, New York, St. Marks Preschool. When it came time to create a beautiful frame that would eventually hold the professional photo we would take in class, I took the task seriously. When instructed to bring Elmer�s white glue, I brought Elmer�s white glue, not yellow wood glue. When instructed to bring small, tubular, dry pasta, I brought small, tubular, dry pasta, not pastina, or Chef Boy-r-dee. When instructed to be careful with the glue, and not to apply too much, I glued each and every piece of pasta individually to the circular cardboard frame. Some students, I distinctly remember, were covering the cardboard in a thick layer of sloppy glue, and pouring their bags of pastina over the top. It looked terrible. There was no effort, no craftsmanship, no love. Mine, on the other, screamed hard work, and love.

Some time later, the teachers helped us spray-paint the dried frames a lovely shade of gold. Gold, as you know, is the color of love, and rich people. When finally dry, the frames were ready for picture day. When picture day finally came, I was also very ready.

I was dressed in my favorite blue pants. I wore a casually but neat, horizontally striped long sleeved, buttonless shirt. I looked cute.

The students lined up and waited, in size order. I was one of the taller kids, so I was near the back of the line. Each students� preparation ritual consisted of the teacher combing their hair the wrong way, tucking their shirt in too far, and twisting their clothes into something far less than flattering. I dreaded the upcoming “adjustments” and stood impatiently on the line. After some time, I realized that I had to go to the bathroom, for number two, not number one. At the time I called it “poo” or “poop.” After a few more seconds, I realized I had go BAD. I was at least 6 or 7 students from the front of the line when I realized it was an emergency. My legs clenched together, and I decided to hold it in. This would prove to be the critical error.

In order to understand what was going through my head, you must understand the bathroom situation at St. Marks Preschool. There was no bathroom in the church basement classroom. There was a bathroom up the stairs, through the church and in the back room where the priests would prepare before Mass. I know that sounds fishy now, and I guess it was. As much as I no longer consider myself Catholic, I can assure, that I was never inappropriately touched or fondled. It was, however, a terrifyingly supernatural experience for a young child. So complicated was the procedure, and so likely was the possibility of getting lost, that a buddy system was implemented and no student was permitted to the bathroom alone. My buddy, was always my best friend, Nicky. He was a nerd, even for a 5 year old. He had thick, black-rimmed glasses. His jet-black hair stuck straight up out of his head in every direction. It had no style, just “out.” He was nice though, from what I can remember. Anyway, the process of getting permission to go, getting the buddy, finding the bathroom, doing number two, cleaning up, and navigating back to the classroom, was, in my mind, bound to take an eternity. I was worried, panicked even, that I might miss my turn in front the camera. So, I made the conscious decision to hold it in until my turn had passed.

As my turn was coming closer, the emergency was getting worse. I am sure I was red-faced with strain and discomfort. My legs were twisted together and butt-cheeks were clenched tighter than a crab�s. My intentions were good. All I wanted to do was take a picture for my mother and present it to her the frame I had so carefully created. It was for her. I was for her that I agonized over the placement of those macaronis, for her that I used the right glue, for her that I dressed so nicely, for her that I stood there struggling with my own body, and for her that I shit my pants.

I don�t know exactly when. I think there were two or three students left ahead of me for their pictures. All I remember is that I let go. I gave up. I lost control. And I shit my pants. You have to understand what I mean here. Unlike Friday night, I did not have “the runs.” I was in perfect health. When I say I shit my pants, I mean I shit them. The whole thing. I completely relieved myself right into my pants. It sucked. And then it was my turn.

I waddled up to the teacher�s aid who would “adjust” me. She, as expected, un-combed my hair, twisted my shirt, and escorted me over to the chair on which I would sit. And I sat. And it was as horrible and you might be now imagining. I sat right in it, and struggled to smile. My hands joined by their fingernails, my nostrils flared, and my lips and teeth struggled to smile. Click. Click. It was over. Not really.

I immediately walked over to the teacher and told her I needed to use the restroom. Following procedure, she teamed me up with Nicky, and we began our journey through the church. I distinctly remember Nicky asking me why I was walking funny. I didn�t answer. We navigated our way up the stairs, through the church, and into the back rooms. We found the bathroom. It had a sink and a standard public stall, complete with crappy locking mechanism and open bottom walls and door.

I entered the stall. Nicky waited outside. I slid my pants down and examined the mess. It was bad. Real bad. I did my best to clean it all up, and it strikes me now that I didn�t even consider tossing out the underwear and going without. The underwear clearly took the brunt of the attack, and much embarrassment could have been saved if I�d just considered throwing them away. In any case, I didn�t. I struggled to clean them with toilet paper instead. The memory is vivid. I will spare you any more detail on this process except to say that it wasn�t very efficient. As a side note, I didn�t spend any of the time in the bathroom relieving myself any more. The fact was, I was done. I had done the whole thing in my pants.

I guess I was taking a long time, because after a while, Nicky had come into the bathroom and was asking questions. “What�s taking so long?” “When will you be done?” “Are you OK?” My responses were short and panicked. “Everything is fine.” “Wait outside.” “I�ll be done in a minute.” It wasn�t good enough for Nicky and he approached the stall door. The door was hinged to open inward, and Nicky began to pound on it. I really panicked. The last thing I wanted was my preschool best friend to see a load of crap in my underwear.

He pounded and pounded, and I yelled for him to stop, but he didn�t. The door swung open just as I raised both feet up to get ready to kick. The door partially opened and I kicked out with full-force. The door slammed back towards its closed position but was intercepted by Nicky�s face. The noise was horrendous. Nicky let out a surprised and injured noise that startled me. The aluminum door boomed. The floor slapped as Nicky�s half-unconscious body fell to meet it. I remember distinctly looking down and seeing the bottoms of the soles of his shoes under the partial door. He wasn�t out cold, but he was hurt, and moaning. I apologized, but quickly went back to work lining my underwear with six or seven layers of toilet paper.

Finally, I was finished, or at least as finished as I would become. I found Nicky rubbing his nose and forehead in front of the mirror by the sink. I apologized again but scolded him for entering the stall. His only real injury was to his pride. Little did he know that my pride wound would last for 25 years.

All I can remember after that is that I did complete the day of school with the rest of that smelly load in my pants. I can�t imagine what other people thought. I can�t remember what I told the teachers, if anything. I can�t imagine what I told my mother. I wish I remembered more of the aftermath.

Everyone who hears this story always asks what became of the picture. I will tell you. It was printed and inserted into the beautiful frame. A backing was glued on. It was presented to my mother who proudly displayed it on our serving table with the other family memories. I don�t remember exactly when I told her the back-story, but I am sure it was years and years later. Where is the picture now?

When I asked my mother about it, she was confused. Two weeks ago, we tore her house apart looking for it. I thought it was lost forever, and I have to tell you I was pretty mad. Well, as it turned out, it was buried deep in a drawer with other important memories and artifacts of my youth. I was glad we found it. I examined it thoroughly, and it is clear that my memory of its painstaking construction is not as accurate as I thought. Glue can be seen everywhere. Pasta is clearly unevenly spread. My face and hands tell the rest of the story. Take a look.

So, it’s all true. I shit my pants traumatically 25 years ago in preschool, and I shit my pants traumatically 3 days ago. The big difference is that today I am not nearly as mortified, and 25 years from now I will remember it because I wrote it down and shared it with the world.