It’s been a good twelve years since I birthed my last baby. Life is good with the kids. They give me all kinds of joy (when they’re not fighting about who’s responsible for changing the empty milk bag – and you might be surprised to learn it’s not always the obvious choice of the person who drained the last bag). Regardless, I have absolutely no regrets about bringing these marvelous people into the world.
Or so I thought.
Yesterday I was doing my mad scramble home from work, trying to catch that first streetcar that was headed in my direction. This means spotting it at the corner up ahead, judging how long it’s going to take the light to change allowing the car to advance through the intersection, and generally making the split decision as to whether it’s worth hustling to beat that light. Yesterday, I decided that I could make it if I went flat-out.
I lifted one leg and stepped down hard on the sidewalk so as to propel my body forward and allow my other leg to stretch ahead to gain a few inches on my regular stride, with the intention of breaking into a run. I knew I was in trouble as soon as my other leg raised and was on its way down. The thought that came to mind as pee started trickling down my inner thigh? “Are you fucking kidding me?”
I’m no stranger to the delightful post-pregnancy induced pissing. Put me on a trampoline without some kind of padding and all bets are off on who’s going to remain standing as the surface slicks up. Sneezing more than twice in a row while standing? Hello urine. Jogging? Do I really need to describe the fall out? All of these situations are ones I either prepare for or expect. The cost of doing procreation business.
But come on! One and a half steps into a sprint? This I was not prepared for.
I had to pull up immediately and entered into panic mode as futile concentration could not reign that liquid back in. There’s something really discouraging about willing your mind to move muscles and your muscles just saying F.U! It feels like a big void (no pun intended). A sick disconnect. Mind over matter fails miserably.
With a wet cougar thong, damp pants, a long winter jacket to cover the damage, and an aura of fake dignity, I slowed my stride and walked with my legs rubbing against each other and watched as my streetcar sailed ahead. Who cares, I thought. I attempted to comfort myself with the idea that those things always smell like piss and b.o. anyway.
Yep, and then it occurred to me…..