One of the things I've missed most about blogging is my weekly over-share, entitled TMI Thursday.
I figured, being as it's Thursday, there is no time like the present to revive the embarrassing, the degrading, the mortifying. It's time to get back to the cringe, the delicate details, the scandalous stories... the compromising confessions.
In the interest of full disclosure, I turned 40 in 2021. Thanks to COVID, it sorta felt like a time loop or something - as if it didn't really happen. We did spend a couple of nights at a casino, which seemed even more thrilling, in that it felt pretty irresponsible. We survived - we masked up, and I held my own at the poker table. We didn't get sick.
But I digress.
Now, as the mom of a 12-year-old, I have been struggling with something for over a decade now. (Several things, actually - and thanks for pointing that out.)
IYKYK - it starts out innocently enough. You laugh. You sneeze.
And you do the move - you know the one- you cross one leg in front of the other and you squeeze your ass cheeks together and you use those pelvic muscles and you... pray.
You pray you don't piss your pants in front of god or your best friend or in-laws, or the lady behind you in line at Target.
You don't. There might be a little sprinkle. A trickle of a tinkle. It's inconvenient. It's anxiety induing. But it isn't that big of a deal.
When you compare it...
To other, more dire situations.
Like mine.
Since I've turned 40, the dance move/ cheek squeeze, vag squeeze - the old routine ain't cutting it.
I'm pissing enough that I've had to mop up a little puddle off the leather couch. I've had the wrong kind of wet spot on my side of the bed.
And earlier this week?
I was having a nice little commute to a business meeting downtown. I'd be touring a geriatric psych unit with one of my favorite ladies in the Senior Care Industry.
Psych wards intrigue me, and I'd get to spend time with sweet, energetic Sameera.
Unfortunately, I had a coughing fit on the way from my comfortable, east end, extra-undie-having home in the suburbs. I was SO close to the exit - I had the KFC Yum Center in my sights.
And there it was. Right there, in my car, while trying to listen to True Crime Obsessed and get to my appointment in one, dry piece -
I urinated. I urinated enough that I could put my hand between my thighs and feel that warm, wet, whisper of a Whoopsie.
I whipped into the parking garage and considered my options. I was wearing a blazer, but it would look real dumb to tie it around my waist. I could turn around and go home, cancel the tour, try again another day. But, again... looking forward to it!
Making my way into the ladies' room in the lobby, all I could do was assess the (massive) damage.
Soiled, soaked - I was like one of those Baby Alive dolls, for Christ's sake. And I was starting to smell like mulch. That's the only way I know how to describe the odor of fresh urine beginning to dry on the crotch of a freshly laundered Rachel Zoe black pant.
With a deep breath, I did the only thing I knew to do.
I said to the universe, Piss Off.
I took a few cleansing breaths applied a heavy spritz of body splash, pulled up my moist Big-Girl-Panties, and made my way to my meeting.
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