You know when your bladder is really full, as in so full that you probably should have relieved yourself about thirty minutes before you actually do. And there you are, doing the cross-legged walk to the bathroom, trying to keep your legs crossed as you unbutton your jeans, thinking about anything that doesn't involve running water. Then there's the moment where you look at the toilet - and at that moment it's all you can do to keep from peeing your pants.
Something about seeing the john, knowing that there's relief ahead, there's urgency and peace in that moment. And then, relief, paired with telling yourself that you won't go that long again ignoring your bladder.
But you do.
Someday I'll have worn out my pelvic floor with babies. That's a fancy way of saying that I won't be able to compete in the olympic-bladder-holding campaigns. That means that I'll pee myself when I laugh or cough or sneeze or jump. That means I'll have to buy stock in Poise pads to justify all the packs I'll have to purchase to keep pee from getting on my clothes. That means I'll get older and hope I'm not one of the women whose bladder or uterus (or both) fall outside of their body. Getting old doesn't seem like a fun passtime. And that's all okay, I guess, because that's what's supposed to happen. Time.
And all of that is a fancy way of saying that in a lot of ways right now I feel like someone struggling with the buttons on their jeans while they desperately hold their bladder. And I'm wondering if it would really be a bad thing if I just pee my pants and get it over with -- or is the struggle with the zipper worth the moment of accomplished relief.
Summer Memories on Mackinac Island
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