Escape From Urinary Purgatory

Hovering over the porcelain god, I realize I’ve become a biohazard

Photo by Robyn Sands. Retouching by Elana Hershman.

My bladder is bloated like a force-fed goose. “I’ll be right back.”

I enter the stall. While I go with the flow, I wonder if I flip-flopped my state tax and Hulu payments. Good thing I’m not an accountant. My stream stops. My bladder is gladder. I rise and experience a urine encore.

I used to take answering nature’s call for granted, like knowing the corner bodega will have Puffins and HDMI cables. Having acquired loose lobes, limp hair, and lax triceps, I’ve now arrived at weak pelvic floor.

As I twist my body toward the toilet paper dispenser, an Exxon Valdez-level leak erupts. In a stall the size of a Catholic confessional, I realize that I’ve become a biohazard. I mentally note to cruise the female incontinence pads aisle at CVS.

Is urine seeping into my brain? My pelvic floor may be weak, but my perseverance is strong.

I raise my jeans. So far, so dry.

I zip and button. So far, so dry.

I take a step. So far, so dry.

I take another step and…ahhh…ahhh…ACHOO! My body betrays me, unleashing a bladder blooper. How could there be any more liquid left in the tank? Have I reached the point in life when I need to pack backup pants?

Or, is my bladder quietly quitting? Have all the rounds of mind erasers, Harvey Wallbangers, Alabama slammers, fuzzy navels, Bahama mamas, hot buttered toddies, and purple hooter shooters caused it to shelter-in-place?

To make matters worse, why am I dressed like I’m at a white party? I’m drips away from my pants turning Pantone wee-wee pad.

Now, to ensure that my pipes are plugged, I perform a motion test. Hands out, hands up, touch shoulders, touch hips, wiggle, jump, turn, clap, success. “Hey, Macarena!”

I exit the stall. Approaching the sink, my bladder pings me.

I reenter the stall. I hover over the porcelain god. I exit the stall.

My bladder pings me.

I reenter the stall. I hover over the porcelain god. I exit the stall.

Will I ever see the world again?

I reenter the stall. I hover over the porcelain god. I exit the stall.

Or did I flip-flop my federal tax and licorice.com payments?

I reenter the stall. I hover over the porcelain god. I exit the stall.

My bladder has taken a vow of silence. I’ve escaped urinary purgatory! I salute the sink and high-five the Dyson.

As I return to society, my phone catapults out of my pocket onto the floor. If I bend down, I may trigger a catastrophic shift in bladder dynamics.

A bathroom attendant steps into the restroom. She sees me staring at my phone on the floor. “Is that your phone?” I try to stop her from bending over, but she’s too quick. Instantly, I recognize the look of urine leakage as it overcomes her face.