A few days ago, my friend asked me if I'd suffered any horrifically embarrassing moments.

I couldn't think of a thing. I felt just like I would if I were on "Wheel of Fortune". Sure, I can solve those puzzles with amazing ease from the comfort of my couch, but if I were face to face with Pat, Vanna and Wheel, I probably couldn't solve a Prize Puzzle with one missing P.

DRINKING MARGARITAS WITH A TOWEL BOY NAMED _EDRO AND WATCHING THE WAVES ROLL IN.

"Um, Pat, is-is-is it, um, 'Drinking margaritas with a towel boy named Kedro and watching the waves roll in?' "

"No, you big dummy, its PEDRO, not KEDRO! PEDRO! Send this weakling away before I vomit," says Pat.

The point is, I freeze when I'm put on the spot. I couldn't even come up with one embarrassing moment when I was asked.

But once I was in the car, embarrassing moments began to flood my mind.

There was the time I casually threw up under a card table while playing poker. The time I was punched in the face by a girl 3 FEET shorter than me (in front of half my high school).The time an 8-year-old douche satchel pushed me through some bushes on the playground, and the whole class watched as I struggled to get back on my Sam and Libbys. The time I....you get the point.

But when the following moment came to mind, I cringed at the mere thought of it.

It was the hot, relaxing summer of 2011. My kids and I were at the swimming pool at the little resort where we often stay on the Tennessee River.

When the urge to pee comes a- knocking on your kidneys, it's a real pain to gather your children, wrap them in towels, grab all of your stuff so that creepy guy over in the corner doesn't steal your wallet or your pool noodles and walk nearly 1.3 miles to a nasty and wet bathroom riddled with soggy toilet paper and recycled concession stand pizza stench from somebody's latest BM.

My husband had disappeared on the golf cart with a full beer and his "classic country" playlist, so I knew it would be a few minutes (hours) before he returned. I had no one to watch the offspring. What was I to do?

I do not, do NOT, condone peeing in pools, but this was one of those times where I just couldn't hold it, and I couldn't stand the idea of doing all of that relocating. So, as I was holding my youngest on my hip, watching the oldest snorkel around in the deep end, I made my way to the shallow end of the pool. I made sure I was at least 5-7 feet from any other humans.

And I peed.

Only I forgot I was taking B Complex Vitamins.

Why is that significant to the story?

B Complex Vitamins make urine neon orange/yellow.

Yes, I said neon.

I was surrounded by orange and yellow water. In a resort pool. With people staring and gasping and trying to process what in the name of Michael Phelps was happening.

My first instinct was to blame it on my kid, but I knew people would be concerned that my child was peeing in neon. I also knew that one of the ladies over at the picnic table was a pediatrician, so I didn't want to scream out, "His pee is neon!" and have her running over and wanting to do lab tests on him in a lounge chair.

So I violently splashed around as much as possible to stir up the water and break up the neon hue.

Then I tried to look as confused as the other pool patrons so they wouldn't think I was responsible for the radioactive reservoir.

But they knew. They all knew. They knew I, the one surrounded by water that would glow under a blacklight, was responsible. They all knew that neon urine came from my body. And they all assumed that I was some kind of mutant.

As some little punk in Billabong board shorts and bangs hanging past his chin made a dramatic Caddyshack/Baby Ruth ordeal about it, I nervously waded past him, with my child on my hip, and I exited the pool.

For the first time, I climbed out of a public pool and my butt cellulite dimples were the LAST thing on my mind.

I gathered my children, wrapped them in towels, grabbed all of our stuff and began the lengthy walk back to our room.

At least the B Vitamins gave me the energy to make that long walk of shame.

Susannah B. Lewis is a freelance writer, blogger, aspiring best-selling author, wife of one and stay-at-home mother of two. She was chosen for the Top 13 in Blogger Idol 2013 and she contributes pieces to The Huffington Post. Her work has also been featured in several humorous e-books. When she’s not putting pen to paper, bandaging boo-boos or spraying “Shout” on unidentifiable stains, she enjoys reading, playing the piano and teaching her children all about Southern charm. Read her humor blog, Whoa! Susannah and follow her on Facebook  and Twitter.

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