There I was, sitting in my cozy little SUV, listening to REO Speedwagon FULL BLAST with the air conditioner exploding through my semi-straightened hair when it hit me: How much longer until the bell rings? I GOTTA PEE!
Twelve more minutes, I can do this. I'll just distract myself with social media.
As I navigated through apps, swiping and tapping, I began reminiscing over a female urinating device that I found online the LAST TIME I was researching emergency toilets in the front seat of my car. Imagine...a plastic penis that acts as a jug only instead of collecting fluid, it spits it out the other end —genius. They even make an EXTREME version; complete with an extension tube "so you can urinate without removing your clothes!" How cool is THAT?
The longer I thought about the pink plastic pecker, the more I had to pee.
But, like a fool, I never ordered one for myself. I considered making a mad dash into the school for some quick relief, but the guy behind me had already revved his engine enough times for me to know better than to leave my post.
So instead, I waited...waited...and waited.
Damn it, how much longer?
Thoughts were now spinning in my head so fast that I could barely feel my legs. What if I can't hold it? What if I flood the car and it stalls as I'm trying to leave? What if I drown in a pool of my own urine? What if my vagina explodes? Wait... CAN a vagina explode? This is f***ed up.
If I had been a lesser woman, I would've emptied the bottle of water sitting in the passenger seat and gotten busy right there on the spot, smack dab in front of the school. But there were windows —everywhere. And for all I knew, the kids were already pressing their tiny pink noses against the glass trying to figure out what the hell I was doing with that bottle. So, once again, I waited.
There are circumstances in life that men simply can’t understand, and one of them is the aftermath of childbirth. In the old days, I could hold it in with the best of them; often praised by my airtight seal. I was the Queen of Self-Restraint, the Master of Abstinence, and nothing was going to break me —until I got pregnant.
If there is one thing I learned about giving birth, it is that I should have taken kegel exercises a bit more seriously. But it seemed weird to me: sitting in a corner booth lifting hypothetical weights with my vajayjay while chef Juan smirked at me with his one good tooth. I felt dirty, shameful, and completely grossed out by his imaginary proposals. Still, I should have been more diligent. I should have forced myself to get in the zone because it turns out, when someone sits on your uterus for 9 months and then forces its way out of a tiny hole, there will be leakage.
When they loaded my daughter into the backseat, I knew there was no time to waste. I had to get out of there—NOW—before the floodgates came crashing down and everyone in the carpool line was submerged in my embarrassment.
“Hello!” I cheered while exchanging a yellow-eyed pleasantry with her teacher. “I love that perfume you’re wearing!”
“Oh, thank you! My hus—”
Too late, I was gone, but obviously not forgotten. As I rounded the corner of the school and into the parking lot of a neighboring gas station, I heard the teacher shout the one discouraging word that I couldn’t bear to hear...