Let's Talk About What We Don't Talk About

So I’m at Target yesterday and as I was browsing through the makeup section, I got the feeling that it was time to hit the ladies room.  One large Dunkin Donuts ice coffee and a bottle of water probably wasn’t one of my smartest moves given that I knew I’d be running errands all day, but I desperately needed the caffeine boost and the bottled water for hydration.  Anybody with Multiple Sclerosis who has been out in this heat should be sympathetic.  But I digress.  As I walked into the bathroom, my nostrils were immediately assaulted by that lovely odor that only comes from pubic bathrooms.  I silently said a prayer that this trip to the bathroom would be brief.  Luckily, a stall was available so I walked in, shut the door and inspected the toilet.  Ok, there was nothing floating in the water so my eyes then moved to examine the seat.  Gross.  Somebody who came before me must have stood, but didn’t have great aim.  The seat was a wet disaster.  Still, the need to go was becoming urgent, so I hooked my purse on the door, dropped my capri paints, and assumed the position.  Ladies, you know what I’m talking about—“The Squat”.  The urine started to flow freely, but my relief was short lived.  All of a sudden the flow just stopped.  I still felt like I had to go, but my bladder didn’t want to let anything out.  Ok, so this was not going to be a brief visit.  It was time to gear up for the long process that had become a dreaded battle for me over the past three years. 

I started to concentrate, and a few meager drops came out with some serious effort, but it I wasn’t close to being finished.  My squat that had started up pretty high above the toilet seat was lowering as my thigh muscles protested the strain.  So then I stood up, hoping that a change in position would get things going again.  No luck.  I lowered myself back to “The Squat” and focused.  Who would have ever thought that at 37 years of age I would have to give myself a pep talk on peeing? !?!  I expected this later in life, around 80 or so, but 37?  Really?  As those thoughts ran through my head I felt my thigh muscles rebel and I started dropping towards the seat.  NO!  I could not let this happen!  The hot mess they call a toilet seat would not touch my skin.  I stretched my arms out, bracing each one on the opposite sides of the stall walls.  Phew.  That was a close call.  But now back to the real work.  I must have remained in that position for a good 5 minutes or so before it finally happened.  The damn broke! Well, sort of. The urine starting coming out it spurts, as if was on a schedule, evacuating my bladder every 30 seconds or so with a burst of energy.  Finally, the last burst came and breathed a sigh of relief.  Literally.  I looked at my watch.  Only about 12 minutes was spent here, doing something that used to take me seconds.  As I left the bathroom, I was exhausted and my legs felt like jelly.  Luckily for me, the Starbucks was only about a hundred feet away…

--BLOGGER J