Bethanyisms (Part II)

Amidst these draining few weeks, I've called my therapist mother-in-law several times for advice on how to calm myself down. She advised me to indulge an activity that is gentle, calming, and distracting.

So every time Ryan calls to the backroom to ask what I am doing, I yell back that I am “self soothing.” I, of course, am on the computer. I am blogging. It helps me feel better. It helps me laugh at myself. It does the trick.

While I currently have little news to report, I would still like to coddle myself. Thus, I introduce to you a segment I call “Bethanyisms.” As mentioned in an earlier blog, Bethanyisms are small episodes that make me the eccentric woman that I am.

The following Bethanyism is the story of how I wet my pants while on a date….

I don’t feel embarrassed about it. Maybe I should be. I was twenty years old for heavens sake. I’d had decent bladder control for years. But it was really HIS fault. If anyone should be embarrassed it should be HIM.

He picked me up in his 92 Camero and we made a quick stop at his house to retrieve his wallet. Just as we opened his door, it hit me. I HAD to go. My knees buckled, I hunched over, and held that position until the sensation passed. Then, I asked him if I could use his bathroom. He turned pale.

“Can’t you wait until we get to the restaurant?” he asked shakily.

I shook my head. Any unnecessary vocalization might cause me to “spill some.”

“Our toilet doesn’t work very well.”

“I’ll use the sink,” I mustered.

He sighed and led me to the bathroom. It was immediately clear why he didn’t want me to use his bathroom. There was stale urine coating the ceiling, walls, and toilet. Apparently, my date had sluffed the lecture on “aiming” during his potty training years.

Rebel.

Still, the water beast was unleashed. It was coming. There was nothing I could do. I slammed the door behind me and squatted, taking extra precaution NOT TO TOUCH ANYTHING.

I was so relieved that it took me a few seconds to notice that the brunt of my expulsion had ended up down the front of my jeans. I had peed myself good and hard... all for the sake of NOT TOUCHING ANYTHING.

I cursed my date and his sicko dungeon of urine.

I put on my coat, which luckily was knee length, and endured the rest of the evening in a puddle of my own filth.

Still, my date thought I was charming and cute. His head cold made him oblivious to the ammonia smell that was all too magnified in my own mind.

The next day he sent me a dozen beautiful roses… they were yellow. I never called him back.