I used to say I had the bladder of a six year old girl. Being a thirty something Sasquatch-esqe behemoth of a dude, it was a funny line, right up until (a few years ago) I actually got acquainted with the real world bladder strength of my daughter, a typical six year old girl. As far as I could tell, that kid peed about 4 times a week on average. She'd make it through bath time, book time, a 12 hour night of sleep, and a few morning cartoons before casually sauntering towards the potty. I, on the other hand, typically make a bathroom run twice a night, and yet each morning I find myself sprinting Jesse Owens-style towards the bathroom in a full-out panic (meaning of course that I ran fast, not that I overcame massive racial oppression to become a true hero to millions of people around the globe, in case that analogy was at all unclear.)
I haven't yet come up with a better line to make light of my pint-sized bladder, and still find myself tempted to fall back on that comparison. Truth is I wish I had the bladder of my six year old girl... anyway, where was I? Oh, that's right, over there, on the couch, about to piss myself.
I've almost peed myself on many a long car ride, trying to make it one more exit.
I've almost peed myself at bars or parties when the bathroom is occupied and my bladder has about given up the good fight.
I've almost peed myself at concerts, unwilling to make the run during a good song. (Tragically enough, not all venues offer the convenience of the Meadows in Hartford. At this outdoor amphitheater, concert goers typically break through the wooden fence at the top of the hill, thereby creating a close and convenient potty alternative to trekking the mile or so through the venue to the actual bathrooms. I used these alternate accommodations one fine evening at an Allman Brothers show after many a beer. I ducked through the hole in the fence, walked down the fence line to the first available spot, and proceeded to drain the lizard. Mid-pee I glanced down at to my left where I noticed the couple in the grass, pants at their ankles, frantically humping like bunnies, not more than a foot from where I stood. Following the proper "dude pissing" etiquette, I nodded hello, mumbled "Howzit going?", and returned my gaze to the fence boards in front of me.)
Anyway, this evening, I almost peed myself while finishing up Kevin Smith's "My Boring Ass Life". His account of trying to get Jason Mewes off of heroin was so incredibly compelling that I came pretty damn near to staining the sofa. I just couldn't put the book down for the minute or so that my bio-break might require.
Long way to come for a book review, eh?