I Shit Myself at an Ice Museum

Half-sobbing and half-laughing, I carefully undressed out the stinky, olive green maxi dress in a dirty public restroom amid the sweltering summer heat of the tropics. The dress wasn't even mine. I borrowed it from my sister, so I was torn between deciding whether to wash the dress in the scummy sink--hoping she'd never find out how I sprayed diarrhea all over it--or just cut my losses and tell her I "lost" the dress and have her be pissed at me. I don't usually get embarrassed, but this was a veritable (and literal) "shitfest." I balled up the dress into a wet fecal wad, chucked it into the waste bin, changed into the unsoiled, cheap white dress I bought at the dingy shop next door and hurried out trying to act as natural as possible.

After I emerged in shame from the restroom as inconspicuously as I could, my loving boyfriend extended comforting words like any caring, empathetic partner would do.

"HAHAHA GROSS DUDE, YOU JUST SHIT YOURSELF!"

In my defense, it wasn't my fault. It's not like I thought, "Hey, I have this super chill idea to make this trip way more exciting."

I had never been to a nice getaway vacation with my boyfriend, *Oscar, so we thought it would be fun to spend a week at St. Thomas and enjoy some well deserved relaxation beachside. The Caribbean was absolutely stunning -- the water was so crystal clear that you could see fish swimming by your toes, and gradated to these stunning deep blues the farther out the water reached. We'd spent the first half of the trip doing physically strenuous activities local to our hotel -- hiking, scuba diving, zip lining, swimming with turtles.

Oscar and I decided to make a change in pace, explore, and do some chill activities like sightseeing a bit farther out than our familiar home base of operations.

About a 30 minute drive out from our hotel, we stumbled across this cool outdoor "square" bar with chain swings for chairs. We took a seat and drank a literal plastic bucket of whiskey for breakfast. After a few hours of pre-food drinking, we got hungry so we scouted the neighborhood for places to eat. Down the street was a sushi restaurant: it was a huge venue, but it seemed odd that it was empty (when we walked in, it was literally just us). We thumbed the menu and ordered some nigiri and sashimi. I ordered the salmon carpaccio, and when the server placed the order in front of me, I was a little disappointed because they'd generously added black sesame seeds. And by generous, I mean they dumped an explosion of black seeds so dense that I couldn't even see the salmon. I'm not the biggest fan of sesame seeds, but eh, I wasn't going to be picky. I just shrugged and ate it anyway.

We finished up lunch, and headed on over to the Ice Museum. Outside a friendly old retired couple stopped us to ask us about the Ice Museum. They were a talkative bunch, so after a solid 10 minutes of chit chat, Oscar and I politely excused ourselves from the conversation to head inside the museum. We paid our entry and sat down in the humble, minimal waiting area. We walked to the pile of wet, sour smelling blue parkas to pick out. I carefully sorted through them trying to avoid garments that were too moist, had a matted fur hood lining, or any other concerning stains. We slipped on our parkas and dragged open a huge metal door reminiscent of a restaurant kitchen freezer. We walked in and it was super cool (pun intended)! Huge ice sculptures, an ice bar with complimentary rum shots, and an ice slide were awaiting us.

And then it started to happen. We hadn't even been inside the venue a full 5 minutes before my stomach started to feel really weird like I was getting a period cramp. My lower intestines started gurgling bubbling acid sounds and thrashing my abdomen. Fuck, I thought to myself, I think it was all that bulk rate whiskey and cheap sushi. I shrugged off the pangs in my stomach because I thought I just had gassy bubble gut and because the tickets for the Ice Museum were non-refundable. I figured I could hurry through the exhibit quickly enough to run to a restroom after.

I kept releasing little wet farts, so as a joke I draped my arm around Oscar's shoulder and cupped my hand to his ear and whispered in a really seductive voice, "Hey babe, I just farted." He scrunched his nose and hissed at me, "Ugh babe, what the fuck? That's fucking gross, dude." He started laughing and tried to wriggle himself free from my bear hug. He walked away and playfully joked, "Ugh babe, get the fuck away from me. The smell is following us and shit." I laughed so hard that my anus forced out a very audible, thundering fart that echoed against the cavernous ice walls. It felt slightly wetter than usual, but I thought nothing of it since my butt crack had already been kind of swampy from being outside in muggy, humid weather all week. As I continued walking, something felt...off. My butt cheeks were sliding around against each other as if someone squeezed a bottle of baby oil down my booty crack.

Oscar: "Seriously babe, it fucking smells. The smell is lingering."

Then the realization dawned on me. You know that deafening high-pitched tone a character in a movie hears after a violent, fiery explosion? I heard it in my head. Oh god. I think I shit myself.

Me: "Um, babe, can you do me a favor and sniff the inside of my parka?"
Oscar: "Ew, nah babe, I don't wanna smell your stinky ass farts."
Me: "No, I'm being dead serious. I think I might have shit myself."

Oscar suspiciously eyed at me, second guessing whether or not I was trying to fuck with him. When he realized I was dead serious, he pulled the neckline of my parka open and buried his face into the hole. I'll tell you this: you know you have a good man when he's willing to smell the feces particles radiating from your bodily orifices. When he emerged, he looked disgusted and horrified. He backed his head out of my parka and shook his head "no" like I had just committed a mortal offense to God.

Oscar: "Dude, I think you shit yourself."
Me: (gagging) "O-hh o-hh we--we--we gotta go...we gotta go NOW."

I spun a full 180 on my heels and speed-walked right back out the door. I suddenly became very aware of my body. I could feel my intestines flooding my rectal cavity with more poop liquid than it could handle, and my sphincter was quivering to stay shut, ready to fatigue itself and let loose a deluge of shit. I clenched my ass cheeks as hard as I could and waddled out to the lobby, crop dusting a trail of stink and flecks of watery diarrhea.

I recoiled my arms from the sleeves of my soiled parka and threw it onto the pile of other dirty ones. I was in such a hurry that I surprised the front desk lady who rang up our tickets. She got up and started to ask why we were leaving already and I rudely pushed past her muttering something along the lines of "I have an emergency." I finally reached the front door and thought I was home free. Oh shit. Literally. I let out another wet fart that reverberated throughout my ass cheeks and felt warm, viscous liquid projectile shoot out of my asshole like a sprinkler. I clumsily groped the back of my dress and it was warm and wet. I didn't even have time to look because I sprinted desperately to find the nearest bathroom when that fucking old couple looked startled and stopped me to ask a million questions.

Old Lady: "Dear, what's wrong?"
Me: "There's been an emergency, and I really have to go--"
Old Man: "Oh my goodness, why? Did something happen inside the museum?"
Me: "Oh! No, no -- it's a personal emergency. Everything inside is fine, it's a me problem so I just really need to go now."
Old Lady: "Oh whew, that's a relief. When we saw that you only went in for a few minutes and rushed out looking so panicked, we thought--"
Me: "Ma'am, I am SO SORRY to cut you off but I REALLY NEED TO GO!"

I annoyedly and curtly cut the old lady off mid-sentence and started bolting down the street like a madwoman. I paced in a circle hoping Oscar would hurry the fuck up and provide my backside with cover. I scurried over to a wall slightly out of view from the main road, and pulled my dress around to see that the entire backside was soiled -- wet all the way through. FUCK. I bunched up my skirt at the hips and saw a neon orange-colored oily substance dribbling down my thighs and calves. Oscar ran over and said, "What the fuck? Where did you go?" In a whirl of panic, I said, "JESUS. IT'S FUCKING EVERYWHERE!" He covered my backside while we went to a store to find a new dress I could change into. Going back to the hotel wasn't an option because we were 30 minutes away and I wasn't going to park my shit-covered ass in a poor stranger's cab.

Oscar trailed closely behind me and said, "Ew, the smell is wafting into my face."

We walked for what seemed like an eternity. With each stride, I kicked bits of liquid off my heels and onto the back of my legs. I finally found a random store and pointed at the first dress I saw closest to the front door where I was standing. Oscar purchased the dress while I speed-walked to find a public restroom.

I found a public ladies room in an alleyway with a heavyset Caribbean woman sitting on a stool. I bypassed her and went into the restroom and shimmied my slimy underwear off in the stall. I economically used the last remaining spots of dry real estate on my underwear to wipe excess diarrhea off my body and chucked the underwear in the trash. I sobbed to myself quietly, then inhaled a huge breath as I strategically angled my body to remove the long maxi dress over my head, trying not to get poop in my hair. I twisted and contorted, straining to avoid getting anything remotely slimy on or around my mouth. I gasped for air after I successfully slid out of my dress, standing naked in the stall. I felt so relieved that I was finally free.

I went to reach for toilet paper in the plastic dispenser and felt a bare, cardboard roll spinning against my fingertips.

Me: (a completely reasonable reaction) NOOO!!!!!! WHY GOD, WHY?!

I was aghast. Just my fucking luck. Are you kidding me? My eyes started to well up with tears and I was so frustrated that I tried to make myself cry. You know, that ugly, breathy UGH-UGH grunt?

 Accurate dramatization of the moment my soul died that day. God, why hadst thou forsaken me?

Accurate dramatization of the moment my soul died that day. God, why hadst thou forsaken me?

I teared up as I begrudgingly picked up the dress and slipped it on carefully over my head. The dress was moist and sticky, and the bathroom was humid and smelled horrid. I sheepishly opened the bathroom door, walked to where the lady was sitting, and calmly spoke to the restroom attendant lady as if I didn't just violently defecate myself in public.

Me: "Hi, ma'am? So sorry to bother you, but I don't think there's any more toilet paper in the bathroom."
Restroom Attendant: "No, I've got to give you the toilet paper. A lot of people in the area be stealin' the restroom inventory so now I have to give it out."
Me: "Oh. Okay. Can I please have some toilet paper and paper towels then?"
R.A.: "Sure, child."

She casually unrolled the toilet paper and ripped me off 3 thin squares of toilet paper. She was such a nice lady but, was this bitch for real? I was about to lose my shit (if I hadn't already) and just spiral into an inconsolable mess.

Just like Game 6 with 10 seconds on the clock, Oscar swooped in with my new dress and a generously overflowing fistful of paper towels. I snatched the dress and fresh paper from his hands and ran back in. Brrrgghhhrraaaahhhhgggg. Oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck. I felt that familiar feeling in my gut. I ran to the toilet and slammed my entire body weight onto the porcelain seat, and involuntarily ejected all the bile my muscles could push out. With every convulsion, I gripped my sweaty palms on the sides of the metal stall and grunted primal animal sounds not since heard by prehistoric cavemen.

After it was all over, I had to remove the dress a second time, wipe up would I could with the paper towels, and washed away as much evidence of my faulty biology as I could in the tiny, dirty sink. The toilet looked god awful, like the murder scene of a Law and Order: SVU episode produced by Dick Wolf. I shamefully wiped up what I could with the dress and remaining paper towels, rinsed my hands, and walked out. I felt so fatigued -- emotionally, physically, just all over. The new dress I changed into was a size too big, and kept slipping off my shoulders. I looked and felt like a hot mess.

Oscar and I went back to the Ice Museum anyway. We ended up telling the front desk worker we went in for just 5 minutes before we had an emergency. Luckily, she did us a solid and we got to see the rest of the exhibit.

Sis, if you're out there reading this, this is the real reason why you never got your dress back.

#RIPOliveDress

*Names have been changed.

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