Kind of. It was a little over a week before our wedding and my fiance decided we needed a serious break from wedding planning so we took a picnic trip to the beach. It was a beautiful day of relaxing in the sun with our cell phones off and our feet in the sand.
It takes about 2 hours to get home from the beach, so we left mid-afternoon to be back by dinner. Now, I don’t know what I ate, and I didn’t want to blame my then-fiance for food poisoning, but about half way home I got the serious bubble guts.
Like major, I-can’t-risk-a-fart belly bubbles.
Well between the beach and home there are only vineyards, orchards, and empty dirt fields. No rest stops. I held it until I couldn’t anymore and absolutely had to stop. I couldn’t even run away from the car before dropping my pants and even if I did, there was nowhere to go! We had stopped in the middle of endless rolling hills with only foxtail stubs to hide behind.
So I squatted as close to the car as possible as the poison forced its way out of me and my fiance shoved paper towels out the window for me to clean up with. Only one other car seemed to be on the road that day (thank goodness) and I hope they found my situation more humorous than appalling.
Finally empty of whatever would have undoubtedly killed me, I got back into the car to regain my composure. It was hard not to laugh at the situation, especially when the wind picked up and blew the used paper towels down the deserted road like contaminated tumbleweeds.
There’s no escaping the indignity.
Then the low fuel light turned on.
I swear we drove 100 miles before we saw any building at all let a lone a gas station. But we made it, and my gut made it.
And we still got married.