Zen and the Art of Urination

I hate to admit this, but there’s a strong possibility that I am going to pee my pants at work or, at the very least, in my car on the way home. I am only partly to blame for this.

It’s true; I put off peeing as long as possible while I’m at work. A lot like little kids who get too engaged in playing and stand there doing the forbidden dance of the full bladder and have to be reminded to go pee, I will often become so engaged in my work that I find myself bouncing in my seat and thinking, “Just five more minutes,” before speed walking down the long hall to the bathroom.

Which is locked.

With a combination key pad.* (Apparently, a couple years ago, we had a peeper in the ladies room which prompted them to put keypad locks on all of the bathroom doors. The problem with that is they put the same code on ALL of the bathroom locks, men’s and women’s bathrooms. I tried to explain the hole in the logic here, but no one wanted to hear it.)

The having to pee on the ride home deal is more the fault of traffic. I cleverly cut off all fluids around 3 p.m. for my 6 p.m. commute home and 90% of the time this is just fine. It’s that one day out of ten where my commute takes longer than an hour when there’s usually trouble. I find myself, again, bouncing in my seat but this time I have nothing to think about but how badly I have to pee and how many cars are crawling along at 10 mph between me and my second floor apartment.**

I am very much a stereotypical woman in her thirties when it comes to my bladder. I mean, I’m not buying Depends, and I don’t have to cross my legs when I sneeze, but magically, about three years ago my ability to “hold it” disappeared. (Much like my desire to drink until wobbly or dance in places where strangers can bump into me with their sweaty stranger parts.) I don’t know if my bladder shrank, or if I just wore out the good will of the muscles in charge of keeping me dry and comfortable.*** It’s the single most depressing sign of aging I’ve had yet.

*We don’t need to discuss how long it took me to realize that the combination was part of our office’s street address. Let’s just say I don’t send myself a lot of mail at work, and it was less time than it took me to realize my PIN for the registers when I worked at Borders was the last four digits of my social security number.
**Every one of those stairs is a sick joke when you’ve had a full bladder for 30 minutes. Also, if Riders on the Storm ever comes on the Zune, I am so screwed.
***And no, before anyone suggests it, I am not diabetic, and my kidneys are fully operational; it’s not a serious health issue, it’s just an inconvenience.