It was kindergarten.

It was also time for recess. So far that day, I’d ingested a) a bowl of Frosted Flakes, b) a Flintstones vitamin (a purple Dino), c) two Krispy Kreme doughnuts (an in-class treat earlier that morning), d) a turkey sandwich with mayonnaise and cheese, e) a Thermos full of lukewarm milk, and last but not least, f) a bag of Cheetos. I was feeling a little strange, but I was five years old and couldn’t differentiate that easily between good and bad feelings.

Mrs. Decker, our teacher, instructed us to line up at the classroom door in a “quiet, single file line, please.” We all scrambled from our desks, amped up on higher-than-normal sucrose levels and ready to turn speedy laps around the playground. The monkey bars would be traversed, oh yes, and if no fat kids get in my way, I thought, I’ll go down that slide so fast it’ll set my britches on fire. I was ready.

Standing there in line, I started feeling a little flushed. Assuming it was general recess excitement, I chalked it up to pure anticipation, like in the wee hours of Christmas morning or the first time you touch someone else’s nipple. I was salivating a little more than usual – a strange phenomenon, but not terribly unusual for a kindergartner. I smacked my lips and grinned. The ringing in my ears  – another strange physiological development – would soon be overcome by children’s laughter and the squeaking sound of palm-flesh on metal as we descended the stripper’s pole.

My belly gurgled a little, and I let out a little fart which, to my surprise, felt like the heat blast from a Trident missile. It was way too hot to be normal. I had to wiggle my bottom to let the waves of foul heat dissipate through my underpants. The odor, also unexpected, was pungent. One might even say it smelled rude. Behind me, I heard my friend Jonathan whisper, “Gross.”

I pretended I’d just smelled it, too. “Ew, I know. Who did that?” I felt ashamed and desperate. Looking around for a fall guy, I decided to pin it on a quiet kid named David, who was standing a bit further back in the line. I nodded my head in his direction. Jonathan looked back at David who, at that moment, had his finger up his nose. We nodded in agreement. It made sense.

I was off the hook for the moment, at least in the PR department. My bowels, on the other hand, continued to gurgle, this time with a bit more urgency. Suddenly, a large gas bubble formed and expanded, like when a fresh balloon gets filled with helium. I was under physiological siege. A forced march began through my lower intestine, moving with alarming speed. The gas bubble wanted its freedom, but I couldn’t let that happen. I grimaced and shook, squeezing my sphincter shut and hoping I wouldn’t explode. The gas bubble pushed angrily against my colon, but my colon – way to go, guy – wouldn’t budge. The thing dissipated with a shudder, creating sounds not unlike the plumbing at my aunt’s house. My innards downshifted like a small delivery truck, and a single bead of sweat trickled down my back.

Hoping that was the end of the assault, I exhaled. Things still weren’t right. Like a special effects sequence from the original Star Trek series, the room began to move slightly. Things were shifting, like someone was jerking around with my settings. I was experiencing dizziness. Objects began to lose their color and become a fuzzy gray. My skin began to buzz, becoming sensitive to touch. I was suddenly cold. That earlier bit of flatulence carried with it a heat to fire a thousand locomotives – why was I cold?

My decline was rapid and acute. While attempting to diagnose what was going on, my bodily systems began the manual override process, shutting things down one by one. My stomach felt terrible, my head was spinning, another gas bubble was brewing, this time larger (with reinforcements) and, the weirdest thing, my mouth started filling with saliva.

Fast.

Then, I threw up.

My instinct was to look down. I saw the white tiles on the floor of our classroom. For one shining moment, they appeared white and clean.

I remember the rush of vomit in my throat, feeling my stomach jerking, squeezing its contents back from whence they came. I tried to keep my mouth closed, the sure sign of a first-timer. I may as well have jammed my thumb into an angry geyser.

In an instant, my mouth filled with liquid. The pressure was enormous. For a split second, I was holding it all in, savoring my last moment of anonymity.

Then, my mouth was agape and I was barfing all over the place. It looked like someone had knocked over a strange little fire hydrant. A bright orange stream of chunky liquid began splashing on the white tiles.

The accompanying sounds, also involuntary, weren’t pleasant either. My Chewbacca impression usually leaves ‘em rolling in the aisles, but when it’s unwarranted, unannounced, and comes with a half-gallon of orange barf, it leaves a little to be desired.

“Harrrrrrrrrggggggghhhhh” was the sound I made for my class.

Social dynamics being what they are, the line of kindergartners immediately gave way, creating a radial buffer for me as I suddenly shifted into output mode. They circled around me like Indians on the warpath, giving me about eight feet of space while I emptied the contents of my stomach onto the floor. Sarah Wittingham pointed at the expanding pile of orange porridge, saying “Ewwwwww.” Others joined in, pointing their grimy little fingers and expressing similar disapproval. When it was all over, I was standing just behind what teachers always wrongly label “an accident,” in the middle of a band of disgusted children. I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand and looked around, feeling like I’d just lost a dance-off on a technicality.