My meal was an afterthought by the time I was getting dressed for track conditioning.
All I could do is hope, pray, and clench. While trapping gas and fighting off bowel movements, I did not say a word to anyone.
I sprinted like a gazelle evading the cheetah that was my butt hole.
I had shat myself and gotten away with it in what was my most self-conscious period: high school.
I was already considering quitting, so we might call that “the burrito that broke the camel’s bowels.”
