The one and only time I'll ever almost crap myself on the Internet.

I'm currently recuperating from a 4-mile run. Not because it was particularly difficult, but because for the first time since I was, like, what? I don't know? two-years-old? I literally almost crapped myself. And I need to recover from that, much like one might have to recover from a near-death experience. Because when you almost-crap on a busy Capitol Square arterial road, it is a near-death experience. Even as I was in the act of almost crapping myself, I was arguing with myself in my head about whether I'd admit to this on the Internet AND HERE I AM. Admitting it on the Internet. I have little to no shame. However, as a runner, I feel I am not the only person to experience this exact scenario.

Back up about two hours. Are you with me? I stumble in the door after running some errands. By that point in the night I'd all but abandoned my plan to run when my pal Jonathan called. I'd hounded him earlier to run with me today, so I couldn't very well back out. Meanwhile, as all of this was happening, I was devouring some leftover jalapeño cheesy bread.

DO THE  MATH, YOU GUYS. (jalapeño) + (cheese) x (grease) / (my sensitive stomach) + (speedy metabolism) x (immediate 4-miler) = That Time I Almost Shit My Shorts.

Horrifying.

Now speed up to the last mile. Stomach is churning, and I'm secretly spying a safe haven. Or bathroom. Or new pair of shorts. Since we're running smack-dab down the middle of State Street in Madison, there's really nowhere to hide. Except that one time on Halloween in 2006 when I ducked into an alley to pee. But, well, long-time readers know how that one ends.

I'd be sweating by now, but I was already sweating because it was approximately 81.46 degrees in the sun. And I was running. And the jalapeños in my stomach were pissed. As we were rounding the last block, I'd basically resigned myself to the fact that I was about to crap myself. I probably wouldn't have even said anything, I'd just crap. Right there on the spot. Then die of horror. I was focusing so hard on not shitting my shorts that I didn't have the energy to warn anyone, if I were about to do it.

Of course once the run was over I still had to drive home. It wasn't enough to survive a mile of complete wit and determination and total zen meditation to avoid a soiling, I now had to drive home, too. And I'm not gonna lie (why lie now? I'm already blogging about shit on the Internet. Literally), for at least four or seven seconds I seriously considered the options of how I'd maneuver my way out of shitting myself in the car. By the time I realized there was no easy way to get out of that situation, I was home.

And that, you guys, is the story of how I didn't shit my pants. You're welcome. Happy Memorial Day weekend.