Peeing in the Tub
And other indignities.
Before you hold up a crucifix and cry “TMI,” let me start out by saying that I don’t pee in the bathtub. Let me repeat: No pee in my tub.
That said, I want to pee. I don’t know what happened, but as I get older, just the thought of reclining in a tub of hot, foamy water makes me want to void my bladder.
I mean — WTF?
Men of a certain age are just the opposite. They’ll stand at a urinal or toilet, seat raised and ready for action, their pecker in one hand and “The Odyssey” in the other as they know it’s going to be a long haul.
How weird is that? While a sneeze or mirthful snort can make we women tinkle ourselves, our poor menfolk pray to the Prostate Gods for the merest trickle.
I don’t necessarily attribute my problem to aging, although it doesn’t help. As a kid, and even as I eased into womanhood, I peed my pants. A lot. Without fail, hysterical laughter at something one of my friends or family member had said or done would send me off and sprinting to the loo. For the most part, I never made it in time.
An early onset “pee-pants,” I remember the first time I did the deed in public. I was in kindergarten in Chicago. It was winter and in those days we had some cold and snow for your ass. Unlike the climate-changed, tepid winters we Chicagoans experience today. At least, that’s how they seem to me.
The morning of the public pee-ing, my mother had dressed me in heavy wool leggings to ensure I’d stay toasty on my way to school.
I don’t remember the exact details, of that morning but I recall that my class was putting on some kind of play. And there I was, at the front of the room as my teacher fiddled with some kind of folderol for me to wear.
As she pinned my paper costume onto my five-year-old frame, I felt the unmistakable stirrings of a bladder in need of serious attention.
I told my teacher that I had to go to the bathroom but she admonished me to “just wait.” I was trapped.
Hopping from one leg to the other, I did my best to “wait,” but my best wasn’t good enough. To my horror and to the delight of the rest of the class, I let loose. What was a little girl to do?
Let me tell you something: You haven’t lived until you’ve walked home from school in pee-soaked woolen leggings in the dead of winter. They felt about five pounds heavier than they already were and made a crackling sound when my mother peeled them off me.
To this day, I can’t wear wool.
The fun didn’t stop in kindergarten. As a “tween,” I wet myself while ice-skating. Once again, something someone said set me off and a fun afternoon at the rink turned into the “Pisscapades.”
Back to the tub. As I said, I won’t pee in the tub because, well, who the hell wants to sit in their pee? Also, I am a clean woman, folks. I may have let other hard-won convictions fall by the wayside but I am nothing if not hygienic.
There is something I worry about, though: I’m afraid that one day, as I scramble out of the tub to avoid sullying my lavender-scented bath bomb, I’ll slip and knock myself out. I imagine lying half in and half out of the tub while a team of hunky paramedics hoists my wet, naked ass onto a gurney. My poor husband!
Farting in the bathtub is another no-no. Anyway, everyone knows that women don’t break wind, so that’s a non-starter. I can’t speak for you guys.
Weak bladders aren’t the only indignities we face as we age. I always feel bad when I see an old dude with his fly open, or worse, partially open as if he couldn’t muster up the last vestiges of strength to fully close the barn door.
Aging aside, I’ve seen plenty of younger guys who neglected to properly zip things up. They didn’t nip “it” in the bud, so to speak.
As long as we’re talking about it, ladies, weigh in on this. Would you let a guy know if his fly was open? I’m talking about someone you don’t know very well. For me, I’m thinking the best course of action would be to say nothing and hope that the poor fellow figures it out…catches a breeze or something.
Yep. None of us are immune to the indignities that merely living this life can bestow upon us.
The late, great writer and screenwriter, Nora Ephron wrote a book of essays called “I Feel Bad About My Neck and Other Thoughts on Being a Woman.”
Writers, I don’t care how old you are, read this book. It’s dead-on and freakin’ hysterical, especially the title essay, I Feel Bad About My Neck,” where, at the end of the story she spots a gray-haired, bushy-browed, mustachioed homeless woman with chipped, dirty nails. Ephron concludes that she is “only about eight hours a week away from looking exactly like that woman on the street.”
Thankfully, I don’t feel bad about my neck as I seem to have dodged that particular bullet. Working out regularly certainly has something to do with that. There are things we can fend off and others that we just have to live with.
Like peeing, puking in public is never acceptable. If one is struck by a sudden attack of Salmonella, that is one thing, but to publicly hurl from being “overserved” is gauche.
The “I’m not leaving ’til I’m heaving” mentality may work in our twenties and even our thirties but after that, we’re nothing more than anecdotes. “Hey, remember when Sherry McGuinn passed out in a pool of her own vomit?”
When I was in my mid-to-late teens, I started experimenting with pot. It was a thing for Chrissake! Everyone and their uncle was walking around with dime bags.
I remember being admonished to never drink and smoke at the same time. That imbibing while high was asking for bigtime trouble. Did I listen? Hell, no!
One night, at a friend’s party, I consumed alcohol and smoked marijuana. With impunity! Did I pay for it? Hell, yes! I puked all over my friend’s bed and missed the rest of the party — and most of the next day. I’m nothing if not a glutton for punishment.
Let’s see. What other indignities do we face as we get older? And by “older,” I’m talking forty and up. Ah! Here’s one:
Walking into a room and forgetting why. It’s especially irritating when going up and down stairs. I do this all the time. I clomp downstairs, trundle into our laundry room and wonder, “Why the F did I come here? I don’t have a clue!”
The “senior” moniker. Enough said about that one. I’ve already expounded. See my story, below.
Being perceived as “technically inept” to the point where we need special phones that don’t do anything but…make calls.
Graying pubic hair. I don’t have it! But I will! Whoever comes out with a “Nice ‘N Easy” for pubes will make bank.
Speaking of vaginas, how about vaginal atrophy? Talk about some unfair bullshit! Our libidos peak, but below the faultline, we’re dry as dust. Two words: Coconut oil.
Here’s one of my favorites: Being asked what year I graduated high school when applying for a job that I have no chance in hell of getting — because I won’t friggin’ tell them what year I graduated high school!
Reading glasses in every room, including the bathroom. Because, you know…we can’t friggin’ see!
A mailbox-full of life insurance solicitations. As if we need to be reminded that hey…we’re gonna friggin’ die someday!
My ass. Where’d it go?
Guess what? I’m starting to feel the need for a good long soak in the tub as my lower back is screaming at me to get the hell out of this chair.
I’ll make sure to pee first.
How about it guys? Care to share your thoughts on all this with your own stories? Bring it P.G. Barnett, Helen Cassidy Page, Don Feazelle, Kristi Keller, Leslie Wibberley, Stephen Sovie, Frank McKinley, Natalie Frank, Ph.D. Ramona Grigg, Elle Fredine, Meg Stewart, Charlene Fate, Pam Livingston, Greg Prince, Estacious(Charles White), Susan Brearley, James Knight, Randy Shingler, Hank Eng, Bebe Nicholson, Hawkeye Pete Egan B. and anyone else who wants to chime in! And as always, thanks for reading.
Sherry McGuinn is a slightly-twisted, longtime Chicago-area writer and award-winning screenwriter. Her work has appeared in The Chicago Tribune, Chicago Sun-Times, and numerous other publications. Sherry’s manager is currently pitching her newest screenplay, a drama with dark, comedic overtones and inspired by a true story.