We’re all chiseled from the divine mold, aren’t we? “Made in God’s image,” as the faithful are so fond of reminding us between bites of their post-church Denny’s Grand Slam. He’s pretty handsome, if I do say so myself—though I suspect the Almighty bears a closer resemblance to Morgan Freeman than the blonde, blue-eyed surfer dude adorning the walls of suburban mega-churches.

So it’s not too far-fetched to think that even the Creator of All Things might have, at some point in his infinite existence, accidentally shit his celestial trousers. Maybe after a particularly vigorous session of world-building, or perhaps following a regrettable decision to sample the local cuisine in some forgotten corner of the universe.

It would make me feel infinitely better knowing we have that in common—and not just biblically speaking. It might even make me a believer. After all, what’s more human than the spectacular failure of our most basic bodily functions at precisely the wrong moment?

I’ve eaten fermented shark in Iceland, century eggs in Beijing, and casu marzu in Sardinia—cheese so alive with maggots it practically walks off the plate. I’ve trusted street vendors in Bangkok whose hygiene standards would make a health inspector weep. But nothing, and I mean nothing, prepares you for the existential horror of your own body’s betrayal in the sanctuary of your own home.

The other day, I was sitting in my apartment like some modern-day anchorite, meditating in total darkness during a power outage that had rendered half of Manhattan as useful as a chocolate teapot. Con Edison, in its infinite wisdom, had decided that Tuesday evening was the perfect time for an unscheduled reminder of our dependence on the electrical grid. I was contemplating the fragility of civilization, perhaps composing mental notes for a future essay on how quickly we revert to our primitive selves when deprived of our electronic tethers.

Then—bam! The lights decided to stage their triumphant return, flooding my retinas with the harsh reality of fluorescent bulbs. The sudden illumination surprised me so profoundly that when I jumped up in pure, unadulterated joy—the kind of primitive celebration our ancestors might have felt upon discovering fire—I ended up hosting an unexpected pants party. Population: one. And not the good kind of party, if you catch my meaning.

(Thankfully, I was alone. I may need to workshop that metaphor. “Pants party?” Really? What am I, some frat boy from a direct-to-video comedy? Who’s writing this material—Mitch McConnell’s speechwriter after a three-martini lunch?)

The truth is, we’re all just a startled jump away from complete humiliation. Kings, presidents, celebrity chefs who think they’re hot shit—we’re all united in our fundamental vulnerability to our own digestive systems. I’ve seen grown men in Michelin-starred kitchens reduced to tears by a poorly timed bout of food poisoning. I’ve witnessed diplomats at state dinners clutching their stomachs like they’re holding in state secrets.

At least with the lights back on, I could navigate my way to damage control with some semblance of dignity intact. I could see where I was headed—or should I say, flowing? Because let me tell you, attempting personal hygiene in complete darkness is like trying to prepare a soufflé while blindfolded and drunk. It’s a fool’s errand that ends only in tears and ruined linens.

Wiping in the dark isn’t just a logistical nightmare—it’s a profound meditation on trust, hope, and the cruel indifference of the universe. You’re reduced to the most primitive of navigation techniques, guided only by touch and prayer, hoping against hope that you’re not making a bad situation catastrophically worse. It’s humanity at its most vulnerable, stripped of all pretense and technology, reduced to our most basic biological imperatives.

Wait. Is “Wiping in the Dark” a Springsteen album? It should be. It has that perfect combination of working-class desperation and poetic melancholy that the Boss does so well. Track one: “Thunder Road (to the Bathroom).” Track two: “Born to Run (to the Nearest Toilet).” Track three: “Darkness on the Edge of My Pants.”

The more I think about it, the more I’m convinced that our shared capacity for spectacular digestive failure might be the most democratic thing about the human experience. Rich or poor, brilliant or dim, we’re all just sophisticated mammals trying not to soil ourselves while maintaining some shred of dignity. It’s the great equalizer, more universal than death, more humbling than taxes.

And if that doesn’t make you believe in the fundamental interconnectedness of all living things, I don’t know what will. Maybe God really did shit his pants that first week of creation. Maybe that’s what the seventh day was really for—divine laundry day.