When I was in college a bunch of girls and I decided to head down to Florida for Spring Break. I know … strange. College kids rarely do this … but we were rebels. Since no one had any money, we all piled into one of the girls’ cars, a station wagon no less, and headed south. For our 18 hour drive down, I think I only had to pee once. I distinctly remember being wildly annoyed that these girls needed to stop every two hours for a potty break. I had a steel bladder … a bladder to be reckoned with … Chuck Norris’ bladder, if you will.
My how bladders can change. Oh, and minds. Minds can change too I guess. But mostly bladders.
One of my favs got tickets to the Jimmy Fallon show last weekend. Headlining guest? Jason Statham.
I’m sorry, what were we talking about?
Oh, yeah … peeing.
Three of us piled into a car – a mid-sized SUV this time, if you must know, then grabbed a train, and lugged our sorry, tired mom asses to New York City. We had an amazing time. And Jimmy Fallon … if I didn’t like him before, I love him now. But enough about Jimmy Fallon and his adorable self … the real story here is about the mind numbing amount of times we had to pee in the city that doesn’t sleep.
Now that my friends and I are moms, everything revolves around the bathroom. EVERY. THING. I thought it was bad when the kids were potty training and you had to know where the nearest bathroom was at all times … whether it be at the mall, the pool, the highway, or Aunt Junie’s one bathroom mansion … you didn’t know where the bathroom was and you were screwed … and by that I mean you’d be cleaning pee off your child’s legs and convincing yourself that potty training is overrated. There’s nothing inherently wrong with a 15 year old wearing diapers.
But now that our mom bladders have shriveled up to tiny Altoid sized, out-of-shape muscles (thanks kids!!), we are in pretty much constant need of a bathroom.
So back to NYC … we head to the JF show and do everything right. We pee and then get in line. Everyone knows this. You ALWAYS pee first. But, while standing in line, my friend begins to ask the guy in charge (presumably a 20 year old intern who can piss standing up and probably has a bladder the size of a basketball) what would happen if she had to pee in the middle of the show. He says – you can’t come back in. You can leave, but you cannot re-enter. She starts to panic. And even though we’ve JUST PEED, she proceeds to ask how long it will be until we are let in and if she has time to run to the bathroom and pee again. He says it could be 5 minutes, could be 15 minutes. I see her mind frantically working … trying to figure out the distance between the bathroom and where we are currently located … and it ain’t a hop, skip and a jump. But if she doesn’t make it back in time, she will not be allowed in. AT ALL.
She rips open the elastic barrier keeping us corralled into place like the cattle we are, murmurs “I’m going to the bathroom” and starts running.
I love her, but, honestly, we would have to ditch her if we were on the Amazing Race.
My other girlfriend, the one who got us the tickets and has a slight tendency to worry, starts hyperventilating. While I search the floor looking for a paper bag, she keeps her head firmly looking back to see when our friend with the weakest bladder will return. The people behind us are taking bets on whether or not she’ll make it … and there’s always that one Debbie Downer who insists, “She will NEVER make it.” Shut up, lady, or I’m gonna piss right here on your shoe. I look over at one point and my hyperventilating friend is now taking her own pulse. Apparently she’s concerned that her heart may explode from the pressure. This is high stakes here. If we don’t make it in … well, we might as well just screw world peace.
I’m wondering how I’m going to resuscitate her when one of the interns states we will be entering in 5 minutes. 5 MINUTES!?! We have no idea if our friend will make it back in time. Sweat is pouring off my body and my only mildly stressed friend is starting to sway and turn blue. Every scenario is whizzing through my mind. How can we stall them? I could collapse, sprawling my body out as far as I can to block people from moving forward. But then I picture people just stepping over my limp body as I desperately attempt to trip them. Damn you 5’5″ height!! Or what about starting a loud rendition of the Wobble song that blocks out the intern’s insistent voice stating that it’s time to enter the studio. I’m just about to start screeching out the lyrics, when our friend comes, red-faced and gasping for breath, back into line.
The relief was palpable. I even heard the people behind us relax … and the shuffling of money. I shoot Debbie Downer a look that says I knew my friend would make it back in time, I never had any doubt, and she should shut her pie hole. Ok, I did that in my head. But I bet that bitch knew it.
This is the shit we have to deal with people!! We basically have a disability. In fact, we DO have a disability!! Is anyone hearing me? Anyone getting this? DISABILITY. ACCOMMODATIONS need to be made. This is no different than being an amputee or a blind person. NO. DIFFERENT.
But seriously, we all agreed we’re bringing Depends next time. It’s just too risky not to. Could you imagine if we had missed Jason Statham?