Well, now you’ve stepped in it.

Two nights ago I stood hailing a cab. I was running late, cursing the obscene wind chill as it attacked my face like it was a frozen ham. I’d been standing there for nineteen minutes. If I don’t get this cab, I thought, I’ll die out here—when I’m cold, everything is all very Dr. Zhivago. As if from my brain to god’s ears, the driver swerved to the curb in front of me and stopped. I had won. I had gotten a cab. Warmth, mobility and reasonably safe, chauffeured service to my destination would be mine.

I kill.

The driver was nice enough. He made good time and we had some above adequate small talk. I threw in a disparaging comment about Taxi TV for good measure. It was dark out, making it hard to see anything inside the backseat of the cab’s black interior. I was strapped in my seat, but my feet slid around in the residual moisture that the weather seemed to have left on every floor surface in the city.

Reaching my destination, I paid the man, opened the door and stepped out. As I turned back to shut the door, I noticed mud smeared all over the floorboard underneath the seat I’d been sitting in. “Great,” I said, eyeing my shoes which were now caked in it.

I did the moonwalk and a spastic grapevine move for a few minutes, trying to coax as much mud off of the shoes as I could, but I was only pushing it farther into the leather body of the shoe. I picked up a piece of discarded paper (“trash” is so five non-eco friendly minutes ago) on the sidewalk and bent down to wipe some of the mud off of my feet. There was a lot more than I realized.

My shoes were covered in brown, looking like upside-down, chocolate frosted cupcakes. Bottoms, sides, toes, there was mud everywhere, and in the few steps I’d taken, it had transferred itself onto the hems of my jeans, making for what I prefer to think one could interpret as a very chic, brown ombre effect—if one was on crack. Using the discarded paper as a shield, I scooped a big chunk of it off of the sole of my left shoe. I was going to need a lot more discarded paper.

I glanced down at my watch. Wait… what was that smell?

I took a long sniff. Ugh. What was that? Moving closer down to get a better look at my stinky predicament*, something definitely smelled horrid. At this point it wouldn’t have taken a rocket scientist to figure it out, but I sure could have used one, along with a rocket to blast me out of those goddamn shoes. It wasn’t mud as I had naively assumed, it was shit.

It was literally shit. Poop that had been lying in wait for me in the back of the cab, the cab that had “saved” me from the harsh environs of fourteen minutes ago. Now what was harsh?

It’s when the answer is staring you in the face that it’s the most ridiculous.

Seriously? What the hell was I going to do? I stood there, feet caked in shit, well over fifteen minutes late to my destination, no way to remedy my huge problem and the smell—the smell was horrendous.

What could I do? I couldn’t go home, there was no time. I didn’t have spare shoes in my bag. I had no viable options. None. It was shit. I was pooped. Turd City Motel, single room please.

I stood there for a few moments thinking (read: marinating in shit), scraping my feet on the sidewalk a few more times, but it was no use. I had to get moving. There was bound to be a bathroom inside. I could get creative with some paper towels. Or something.

And so I appeared. From the ankle up, I was my usual, shining self (shining has many forms). From the ankle down, I was stench walking. Luckily, the place was dimly lit and reasonably packed, all the better to hide my stinky look. Seeing my party, I approached, waving hello in the hopes of warding off a round of hug and kiss hellos—which I am always trying to escape. My plan was to order a drink and head to the bathroom. Nothing like drinking alone in the toilet.

The plan was going well until about five minutes in. I was mid-order when I heard, “Something stinks.” This prompted a chorus of deep inhales, the result of which was a series of facial expressions I hope never to see again. Suddenly, they were looking at me, the recent arrival, the likely genesis of said stank.

The time had come. I had to say something, own up to being the stinker. “I got dog shit on my shoes,” I muttered like I’d never muttered before.

The next set of reactions came in waves of slow motion, as if I had just revealed a horrendous facelift, an ugly baby, a tattoo from a toxic relationship that everyone knew was already over; only it was worse, worse than an ugly baby with a bad facelift and a flaming heart tattoo, because they were also totally grossed out. And I was grossed out.

I looked down at my shoes. They were so unhappy. I was right, they were cupcakes. They were sad, once-frosted cupcakes that had been brutally knocked off a festive dessert party tray. Now, no one would want them. No one ever wanted an unfrosted cupcake.

And then someone said, “If it was even a dog. I mean, who knows?” Oh, god.

Collecting my drink and what was left of my pride, which was not much, I waddled to the bathroom. Smaller steps seemed wise.

Stepping in shit is never good. Typically, it’s a rare event (don’t even), not unlike the perils of stepping in gum or having a bird take a fly-by crap on you—I know, that’s “good luck.” Well, Jesus, I’m due. But stepping in poop carries with it the added bonus of a smell you just can’t shake, no matter what you try to MacGyver in the bathroom of a public place with a wad of damp paper towels. And being blindsided by it in the back of one of my beloved New York City cabs, not even having a chance to see it on the street and avoid it, that’s what really stunk.

Now I was the sad, unfrosted cupcake who had been brutally knocked off of a festive dessert party tray.

*Add another one to my list of potential band names.