Pee Are The Champions
On top of the poopocalypse, which happens on the regs since I had my gallbladder out a year ago, I am a notorious pants pee-er from way back. I have wet myself in no less than seven states and am fully aware that it’s unusual to have lived over three decades and still not be housebroken.
I am the creative type, I am whimsical, I am a flibbertigibbet; I can’t be bothered to recognize the signs of impending urination. Biology means nothing to a daydreamer. So, I am caught completely unaware each time my tinkle comes knockknockknocking on heaven’s door, just about to let itself out. In fact, I don’t know how I manage to hang onto my chubs when I am a such frequent sprinter. To the bathroom.
When I was in elementary school, I was consistently the best speller in my class. I’ve always had a knack for hearing something and being able to visualize the letters it takes to make that sound happen. Someday, they will find some kind of tumor growing at the base of my brain and it will explain spelling genius in what is clearly a non-genius person. But, when I was a kid, it was the one thing I had that made me unique. In fourth grade, this anomaly took me to the school spelling bee.
Four contestants from each grade sat on the stage of the auditorium/cafeteria in front of the whole student body, who was psyched because they were getting out of class but not psyched at all to be watching a damn spelling bee. There was a constant buzz of conversation, even though the principal periodically reminded everyone to quiet down. As my competitors got fewer and fewer, I was thrilled to have a bigger audience to myself and was trying to figure out how to work a song and dance number from Annie (The movie, not the musical. Aileen Quinn 4 lyf!) into my next turn at the mic. As Eminem says, “You only get one shot, do not miss your chance to blow. This opportunity comes once in a lifetime yo”. I was loath to miss my chance to blow and was considering ways to shine like the top of the Chrysler Building when I heard my name called. At the same time, I realized I really had to pee. Or, more accurately, was starting to pee. All over myself.
I approached the microphone as I felt my pants soak through with urine. When I finally arrived at my destination, I realized I wouldn’t be the star of the show, after all, and the only song I would be singing was the blues. And there was nary a harmonica in sight. I stood and finished what couldn’t be undid as I was given my word. It was “aquarium” and I couldn’t, for the life of me, figure out how it was spelled, even though I’d studied it. My mistake was not having studied it while standing in a puddle of what was only a few hours ago two cartons of chocolate milk.
I was called out and made to sit back in my seat because I wasn’t really out until the next person spelled their word right. I prayed that they did. And that they didn’t notice the small golden pond of piss they were standing in or the strong smell of hobo emanating from me. Thankfully, the next girl spelled her word right and I made a sad face, while simultaneously being thankful that the whole thing was over.
But it wasn’t. Fate, cruel mistress that she is, had it that I wasn’t going home after school that day, but horseback riding with the Girl Scout troop full of popular, pretty girls that my mom was trying to force me into. Good news: I had brought extra pants for the occasion. Bad news: For some reason I had chosen a pair of red sweatpants that hadn’t fit me in years. They were way too short, the elastic around the “ankle” hitting me at mid-calf, and rolled down under my chubby tummy. They looked like spandex leggings, before spandex or leggings even existed and should NOT have been worn without underwear, which I had to do because I’d ditched my pee-soaked pants and underwear in the school bathroom when I changed. Camel toe, much? Yes. Just picture a ten year old fat girl with a bowl cut and visible labia clomping around clumsily on a horse, while five Farrah Fawcett lookalikes tossed their feathered hair and flaunted their Jordache jeans, which didn’t smell like pee, by the way, and bounced as gracefully as if they had been born into the saddle by pregnant mothers who rode a little too far into their ninth month.
When Charlie’s Angels and I finished riding, I rolled my pants back up over my belly and finally took my sore ass home. I never told anyone what had happened to me but I did notice that my keds smelled like pee and am not sure how the subject of missing pants/underwear never came up. I DO know that I didn’t learn any sort of lesson, whatsoever, and have wet myself maybe hundreds of times since then. In fact, unless I’m at work, I’m almost exclusively a dress/skirt girl primarily so I can shave a few seconds off of my peemergency response time. Plus, it makes it easier to ditch wet panties in a wastebasket and still seem fully-dressed. Even without a smile.