A few months after we got married, Deserae and I took a weekend trip to New York City. When we reached our destination, I got a much more intense welcome to the city than I had bargained for.

“YES!” I shouted as we neared the Lincoln Tunnel.

Deserae rolled her eyes.

Not to brag, but I am AMAZING at holding my breath. I don’t get opportunities to showcase this skill very often, so I hold my breath every time we drive through a tunnel to impress my wife. After four months of marriage, Deserae was tragically already losing interest in this trick.

I took three deep breaths, timing my last one perfectly as we entered the Lincoln Tunnel. I puffed out my cheeks and wiggled my eyebrows at Deserae.

I’ve discovered the secret to holding one’s breath for a long time is to relax. Don’t think about anything—just reach the state you get into right before you fall asleep and float there.

While floating in the Lincoln Tunnel, I noticed two things:

1. I’d have to hold my breath for 30 minutes to make it through the tunnel with this traffic.
2. A rumbling had begun deep down in my bowels.

When I let go of my breath, I turned to Deserae. “I’m not feeling so good.”

She gave me a sideways look. “You don’t think it was breakfast, do you?”

We had stayed the previous night at Deserae’s friend Liza’s house. Liza lives in Pennsylvania farm country, and she’d prepared us a wonderful breakfast of farm milk, farm eggs, farm bacon, etc. It was all very delicious and very unprocessed.

“I don’t know. I feel like the bacon was unpasteurized.”

“You don’t pasteurize bacon.”

We sat silently in the tunnel as my stomach tried to pasteurize the bacon. The rumbling grew more intense.

“I don’t think my body is used to real food.”

“OK, the GPS says we’re six minutes away, so hopefully you can make it.”

I couldn’t fully comprehend this statement, because I was now exerting every ounce of energy I had on keeping my stomach from exploding.

“Are you sweating?”

“YES I’M SWEATING!”

I started scanning the tunnel for an emergency bathroom or at least a semi-private place that could become an emergency bathroom. Then, just as quickly as the feeling started, it passed.

By now, Deserae was transfixed by me. “Are you all right?”

“Yeah. I don’t know what that was.”

“OK, you were scaring me.”

We sat in the tunnel for about 20 more minutes, and then, just as we emerged and the skyscrapers of Manhattan came into view, the monster in my bowels returned.

“Oh boy!”

“What?”

“OHHHHHHHH BOY!”

This time, the monster was angrier. Much angrier. It felt like a badger was trying to escape my body. I gripped the steering wheel like my life depended on it. The sweat returned. I started rocking back and forth.

It felt like a badger was trying to escape my body.

Fighting the monster took all of my concentration. Which was unfortunate, because navigating Manhattan requires kind of a lot of concentration too.

“You’re turning left here,” Deserae said, staring down at her GPS.

We didn’t turn left. Deserae looked up.

“What are you doing?”

“WHAT?”

“You needed to turn left!”

“WELL NOW WHAT?!”

“I don’t know, it’s rerouting!”

“WHY ARE THERE SO MANY CARS?!”

“Do you want me to drive?”

“I CAN HANDLE IT!!”

According to the GPS, our hotel was a few minutes away. With traffic, it was more like ten hours. During those minutes/hours, the monster made three more visits. By the time we reached the Times Square Crown Plaza hotel, I had been reduced to a quivering puddle.

“Dustin, I’m parking the car.”

“No, I can do it.”

“Just let me park the car.”

“Quick, get the bags, before the bellboy does!”

Deserae glared at me while I sprinted out of the car and beat the bellboy to our trunk, ensuring that we didn’t have to tip him. Deserae took the bags and (following my instructions) assured the bellboy that “she’s got it, thanks.”

When I jumped back into the car to drive to the parking garage, the monster met me. Our battle resumed. At one point, I stopped breathing. If I breathed, I would have to unclench. And if I unclenched, Deserae would need a new car.

Our parking garage was just on the other side of Times Square. I drove to the middle of Times Square, stopped at a traffic light and peeked in my rearview mirror to see if I could get into the other lane. This is what I saw:

In my haste to get the luggage, I had forgotten to put down the stupid privacy flap in Deserae’s stupid hatchback, and now I couldn’t see anything behind me at the busiest intersection in America. I had two seconds to make a decision:

1. Leave the flap up and get hit by a taxi while trying to merge.
2. Run to the back of the car in the middle of the intersection to put the flap down, while averting my attention from the monster long enough for him to win.

Basically, I had to choose between death and diarrhea.

I chose diarrhea.

I put the car in park, ran to the back, threw open the hatch and pulled down the privacy flap, all while emitting a tiny scream. Even for Times Square it had to be quite a sight: a sweaty, screaming guy performing a one-man Chinese Fire Drill in a weird crouch-run.

Somehow I made it back into the driver’s seat before Vesuvius could blow.

I reached the parking garage and did the crouch-run back across Times Square. Everything passed in a blur. The Spongebob Squarepants who wanted to take a picture with me. The guy trying to sell me watch. The M&M Store. WHY DO YOU NEED A WHOLE STORE FOR M&Ms?!

Knowing his time was running out, the monster launched one final attack. This time, the finish line was in sight, but I had to cross the street and the “Don’t Walk” sign was lit. I looked left. A taxi was about to turn. I remembered Buddy the Elf’s advice: The yellow ones don’t stop. I ran anyways. The yellow one stopped.

When I ran into the hotel, Deserae directed me to the bathroom. I made it just in the nick of time.

I’ll spare you all of the messy details except one. About a minute after I sat down, the stall door opened. It was a hotel custodian. We stared at each other for a full second.

I expected him to either kick me out for defiling his fancy hotel or say something like, “Welcome to New York, kid!” in a cartoon New York accent.

Instead, he closed the door and muttered “You should lock the door.”

“Sorry,” I responded weakly.

Then I managed a smile. I was sweaty, I was humiliated, I was tired.

But I made it.

LIFE LESSON #44

New York. If I can make it there, I’ll make it anywhere.