Tight Quarters in Ski Boots

Having consumed a bacon cheeseburger and two cups of french fries, along with the obligatory cup of coffee, I was in particular need of an excretion location. The problem: I was in the middle of a mountain, in full ski gear.

By the time I made it to the mid-mountain lodge, I was experiencing faux labor pains. I flailed, clumsy in my ski boots, down a single flight of stairs. I stiff-armed random passersby and weaved my way toward the necessary room. Opening the door to the stall, I was angered to find no hook on the door, no shelf for my ski gear.

With my gloves placed in a precarious position among the plumbing protuberances, my helmet (complete with goggles) found a home rocking on the floor. Jacket, unzipped, draped over the wall.

My ski boots are great for skiing and terrible for releasing feces. With my ski pants just barely above my knees, out flew a raucous cacophony, splattering the bowl like paint whipped off a brush.