poopy pants

well, I started to talk about my boyfriend, but now he'll have to wait for another day because I just had an incident that I find highly mortifying, which means everybody should know about it.

So here I was, writing about my boyfriend and why that's okay with my husband, when I felt a little, um, gassy. Since I'm the only person in the room (translate that into I really don't care, I would have just let it fly anyway), I went ahead and farted.

Only once I did that, it didn't feel so much like gas. More like, you-better-go-check-your-chonies than just-a-little-gassy.

So I did.

Check my chonies, that is.

And yep, I pooped in my pants.

37 years old. A mere three weeks away from 38. I really should be more ashamed.

Evidently something I ate today didn't sit well because there was more where that came from. Plus, as I sat there looking at my clothing I realized of course that I couldn't put it back on. But my husband is in our bedroom.

huh.

So I decided to play it off. I nonchalantly threw my soiled laundry into the washing machine (it's seen worse!), and then sauntered (I may even have swaggered) down the hall, clad only in my t-shirt, saying to myself, "Just act like nothing happened. He'll never notice." Like this kind of thing, me walking around half naked, is totally normal. Just another day in the LB household, deciding to change my chonies.

yep. It's all good.

I walked in to our bedroom, headed to the dresser, opened up the underwear drawer. And then it happened. I took a chance and glanced over at dh, who, never even looking up, said, "Get in the shower and clean your ass."

So I did.

I really should be more ashamed.

But mostly I laughed out loud while he mostly tried to ignore me.

I'm not really sure what it was that I ate...