In high school, I had a huge crush on my creative writing teacher. He was the kind of guy where my best friends were like, “Ew, him? Why??”, but that small group of us who understood his appeal were totally obsessed. His old-but-not-too-old aura of wisdom, his un-tucked shirt, scruffy beard, dry sense of humor…it was all so mesmerizing. So, when he found out I babysat and asked me to babysit his kids for the night, I was floored. This was it. This was the night he was going to realize I was not only smart in school, but I could keep his children alive for the night, and that would be enough to start our love affair.
That Friday night, as he and his wife (who was so pretty and nice, godammit), waved goodbye, I soaked in the moment, my imagination of being in his house finally a reality. The rest of the night, everything was going pretty well until we were playing in my teacher’s bedroom (*squeal*) and the four-year-old had to go to the bathroom. Before he could make the short walk from the bedroom to the bathroom, he looked at me with wide eyes and declared, “I pooped my pants.” He started pulling his pants down and his older sister screamed, “Gross!” and I wasn’t really sure what to do but I knew instantly I made a mistake somewhere along the line when his correct assessment of “I pooped my pants” got on the floor. Of my teacher’s bedroom. I stared at the pile of poop on my teacher’s carpet, his son standing in the middle of it, his daughter running in circles around us screaming, and time slowed down as I thought, “This is the worst moment of my life.” And then I realized that the poop wasn’t going to clean itself up.
I jumped into action, running the tub and carrying the boy into the bathroom to wash him off, because it was…everywhere. Just everywhere. While his older sister helped clean him, I grabbed three different types of cleaning solution and a rag, got down on my hands and knees, and proceeded to scrub human feces out of the carpet. When I imagined being in my teacher’s bedroom on my hands and knees, I can tell you it certainly wasn’t like that. Thirty minutes of vigorous scrubbing later, I kinda sorta got the brown stain to fade, but if I were being honest with myself it was pretty clear what had went down in that spot. And that’s when I thought, “No wait, this is the worst moment of my life.” Exhausted, I wiped my hand across my forehead and went to the bathroom to check on the kids. The perpetrator was mostly clean, and as I thanked his sister, she looked at me and asked, “What’s on your face?” I looked in the mirror, and to my utter horror discovered a brown smear running across my forehead. Apparently, when I had wiped my hand on my forehead, there had still been poop on it. Which was now on my face. I literally screamed. As I scrubbed my face clean, I realized that this, without a doubt, had to be THE worst moment of my life. Ah, innocent naïve Past Carly. If poop on your face was the worst moment of your life, we would be so much better off today. When my teacher got home, I explained to him what happened and he was totally cool with it, but things were never the same between us (in Carly’s dream world) because every time I looked at him I could only think about how his son’s poop had been on my face.