One time in a kybo in nowhere

Here's the thing about a toilet that's outdoors.

Okay, let me start over.

No. Maybe I shouldn't.

Okay, but who else would I tell but my good friends who may have done something similar? Okay, not similar, but something embarrassing at least? Okay, here goes.

Last Monday, at a work event that was taking place outdoors, my only choice for a restroom was a kybo. I know no one is super excited about kybos, but I must say these were really clean, and lack-of-smelly, and the best thing a kybo could have been. The thing is, I have memories left of Iowa football tailgating and girls who turned into demons when they really had to go pounding on the door, and the truly smelly kybo in the 80- degree heat festering like a cesspool of not-so-goodness.

So, when I see a kybo, I sweat a little bit.

The event, I should explain, was a motorcycle ride, and it was so cool. I rode in a passenger van feeling very important and wishing I knew how to ride a motorcycle and when we came to one particular spot in the country, I eyed the kybo knowing my time had come. Twenty minutes later as people started to get ready to head to the next stop, I decided this was it, I had to go before we left. I cursed my last soda and popped into the kybo.

Two seconds later I thought, this doesn't sound right.

Or feel right.

I'd been in such a rush, I hadn't noticed the lid was down. The lid was down! I frantically looked at my pants. Thank goodness. All clear. And then I cleaned up the floor of the kybo going, "Ew. Ew. Ew. Ew. Ew." And then I started sweating like a pig because working out in the slightest, like even brushing a hair back from your head, in a kybo that's been sitting in the sun all day that's all closed up is hot work.

And then I removed my pants, just to be sure I didn't have potty all down my pants.

And I did. I did have potty all down my pants. My eyes went wide and I stopped breathing for a second.

Oh. My. God.

I heard a motorcycle rev its engine and really started to panic. They were leaving! And I was standing in my underwear holding peed-on-pants and sweating and going, "What do I do?!!!"

Note: As it turns out, you should not call a client and tell them you have wet your pants at about age 30, so I was looking for a second option.

With lack of anything helpful, I grabbed wads of the 1 ply toilet paper and started patting my pants and patting my pants and patting my pants and sweating and sweating and sweating until finally, finally, my pants looked somewhat acceptable. I had long since heard the motorcycles take off and given up any hope that the van was there, but to my surprise, the van driver was standing outside, probably thinking I'd done the longest #2 of all time, and I smiled shyly and thought, wow. I hope this never. Ever. Happens again.

Until tomorrow ...