I feel compelled to share with you the adventure of my distressing return flight from Boston to Dallas. To fully appreciate the magnitude of the distress, some background is necessary.

For late lunch yesterday, I consumed a prodigious plate of chili nachos with extra jalapenos and 2 beers. I then had a big glass of Starbucks (strong) coffee at about 5 pm. Later that evening, at about 10 pm, I ate a late dinner--chicken quesadillas, again with extra jalapenos, and, most regrettably as it turns out, washed them down with 4 pints of Guinness. Keep in mind that because of my diet the last few months, my system has become accustomed to a LOW carb intake.

I then woke up early this morning for my 8:55 flight. I skipped breakfast, but grabbed another big glass of Starbucks coffee on the way to the airport. I felt my first twinges of what would become an in-flight disaster as I waited at the gate. Still, as a seasoned veteran of assessing the severity of such a condition, who normally eschews the dirty facilities available in the terminal, I believed things would remain stable throughout what I believed was a 2.5 hour flight back to Dallas.

We boarded the flight. Then we pushed back from the gate with seat belts fastened, the pilot announced that this was actually going to be a 4-hour flight and I simultaneously felt the first cramp. I knew I had made a terrible, terrible mistake, an error in judgment so profound that its costs would have to be borne by not only myself, but by many others--strangers--with whom I shared the main cabin. As I scrolled in my mind through the potentially devastating and mortifying outcomes...the end result of the short fuse suddenly ignited by the percolation of my foolishly volatile culinary choices...my heart began to race and I began to sweat.

We taxied at a snail's pace across the tarmac, having already been warned to stay in our seats. My seat, quickly becoming, quite literally, the hot seat, was the middle seat of three on the right side of the packed main cabin. Even an F.A.A. rule-violating, potentially security-breaching dash to the lavatory would have been almost impossible given the girth and frailty of the elderly lady sitting to my left on the aisle (her name was Rachel). I noticed my breaths becoming short and quick. My chest was pounding, my hands wet. What began as an innocent (and admittedly typical) case of sudden onset, acute colonic emergency was quickly becoming a full-fledged panic attack.

As the cruelly calm-sounding captain's voice advised us of at least a 10 minute traffic delay, I was doubled over with the labor pains of my overdue malignant offspring. Are those contractions, I wondered? The cramps and panic were also making me feel quite queasy, and I begin shuffling though the seat back contents, pretending I was looking for the in-flight magazine. Just my luck, no vomit bag in front of me. I could see the tabs from a vomit bag behind the magazines in front of the Rachel. Do I pull the bag out in front of her now and risk a full row panic or do I wait until the last minute, risking even worse results? The dilemma had mercifully, yet only briefly distracted me from the other impending disaster. Owwwww. Another contraction. I had to face the reality that I may actually crap my pants.

It is difficult to explain, but there was simply no way I could get up, despite the grave consequences to all of remaining seated. I began to mentally shuffle outrageous, desperate ideas. Had a vomit bag ever been used for that purpose? Any way to subtly defecate into a small bag while sharing armrests with two other people? Not likely, given the expected explosiveness and utter foulness of the release. Ugh, I now felt more nauseous than ever. I may need to keep that bag in front of me. Why is there only one vomit bag for three people? One bag is woefully inadequate for the middle-seat pivot.

My heart and mind continued to race. There had to be an innovative way to save the day using the implements around me. I felt like an incontinent MacGyver. My suitcase (containing a change of clothes) was just above in the overhead compartment, I was luckily wearing jeans (better containment) instead of slacks, and I had a wetnap in my briefcase. Could I coyly crap my pants now, then clean up later? No good. It would undoubtedly exceed the storage capacity of my jeans.

To sum up the state of my desperation at that point, I actually found myself cursing under my breath that I could not figure out a way to crap my pants. Thankfully, the plane was starting to take off. I had somehow forestalled the catastrophic events and inevitable scandal which would have finally forced American Airlines into bankruptcy. While I suspected I had not achieved 100% containment, it already could have been much, much worse. I was beginning to have some hope that the doomsday scenarios could be averted. Nevertheless, I knew the voiding process was irreversibly engaged. Resolved that complete victory was no longer an option, I focused on mitigating personal and collateral damage.

Maybe it was the sharpening of my senses due to my body's fight-or-flight response, but I begin to smell poo. That was it. Despite the fact that the seatbelt light remained illuminated and even the fight attendants had not yet been given permission to begin service, the time was now. In a surprisingly level tone, I leaned to my left toward Rachel and stated, "I really need to get up." She began fidgeting with her carryons and fumbling with her seatbelt. Any further delay at this stage, after I had already made up my mind to make the dash, threatened an eruption that would rival Mount St. Helens. I could not wait another nanosecond. With an amazing, adrenaline-inspired move that was both athletic and graceful, I somehow simultaneously rose from my seat, twisted and stepped over the lady with my right leg first, jerking my left leg over as well. I landed with both feet in the aisle, in a fluid motion headed toward the back of the plane--all this without touching Rachel and with only modest further loss of containment.

I encountered a flight attendant who was seated adjacent to the lavatories who began "Sir, you cannot...." My countenance somehow fully briefed her on my state of affairs. She said, "OK, go ahead...but be careful." As I stepped in, I wondered what she meant by that.

The lavatory experience was violent and appalling. All preemptive or simultaneous flushing strategies were futile given the toilet's design. There would be no minimizing the stench. Maybe it was the sense of relief, or perhaps simply the noxiousness of the fumes, but I was suddenly giggling audibly. Finishing up 15 minutes later, any giddiness subsided as I discovered that the volume of the surprisingly tacky produce had not only refused to whisk away with blue water, but had also pinned back the toilet's flap, effectively venting into the plane all the contents of tank (for most of which I'm sure I bore responsibility). There was nothing else I could do. I knew the plane's confined space combined with the re-circulating of the air would make for a very unpleasant flight, especially for those passengers in the back. I pulled myself together, washed up and prepared for my walk of shame (less one inconspicuously disposed undergarment.)

Although no one actually stared at me on the way back to my seat, the flight attendant, who was now up and about, asked me audibly if I was OK, prompting a few quick glances from some who had not even noticed my prompt departure. I could still smell it, 12 rows up. I was hoping it was just stuck in my nasal membranes. As I climbed back over Rachel, she also asked if I was OK. She had to smell it...I had to straddle her twice to crawl over her for godssake. I decided the only strategy was to pretend to be asleep until everything settled, which I did.

After about 10 more minutes, one of the male flight attendants came over the intercom and announced that there had been a malfunction in both(?) rear lavatories and that, while they were worked to correct on the problem, everyone would have to use the front lavatory. As I sat there pretending to be asleep, feeling people's eyes on me, I swear this is exactly what that flight attendant said next, "Those passengers toward the rear of the aircraft may have noticed an unpleasant smell. For those passengers who are sensitive to this or who may have weak stomachs, let us know and we will do our best to relocate you toward the front of the aircraft, at least until the problem is corrected."

Although they announced the lavatories "repaired" after about 15 more minutes, I continued "sleeping" for at least two hours (despite the nagging sensation that the entire process was on the verge of repeating itself). After that, I have spent the rest of the time with my head down typing this email.