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I almost laugh. Rebecca and I are the kind of friends who do the occasional lunch as an excuse to get out of the office and do something other than stare at ourselves in the rearview mirror of our cars while we eat alone, but she’s not the kind of girlfriend who gabs about orgasms or the lack thereof.
She’s straitlaced and a little uptight, quite frankly, and she doesn’t usually ever say anything other than glowing, rosy small talk.
She’s genuinely friendly, though, and I like that about her. I didn’t get a whole lot of friendliness in New York, and I don’t get a whole lot of authenticity here. She’s also the head of my new practice, and I like the idea of building some kind of relationship with her, even if it’s shallow.
“Yeah, I just…think I drank a little too much iced tea.” I give her the politest explanation I can manage. “If you’ll excuse me, I need to run to the ladies’ room real quick.”
She nods enthusiastically, cutting off another sliver of chicken to put into her mouth. Before she does, though, she responds, “Of course. Go ahead.”
I jump up from the table like a newborn colt, fumbling my legs a little bit as I try to get them under me.
Apparently, the pressure on my bladder has numbed my coordination slightly. A few heads turn in my direction as my chair bumps back into the table with the rough way I push it in, and I take off at an elderly-woman-walking-the-mall speed walk for the bathroom.
My heels are against me on the slick wooden floor, but I won’t be stopped. There’s no option at this point.
I stalk into the dark back hallway, a scowl pulling my eyebrows together while I pray that my Kegels have kept my vaginal floor in good enough shape to prevent potty accidents.
But I’m stopped in my tracks when I spot a freaking line outside the bathroom.
Oh no…
My bladder lurches at the sight of five women, all waiting ahead of me to get into the tiny two-stall bathroom. They look bored and disinterested, not at all in the distress I’m feeling, and I immediately—and irrationally—get angry with them.
Do they even really need to go?
Facking hell! The urge to pee is so strong, I manically survey the area for some kind of backup plan.
I don’t really know what I’m thinking I can substitute for a toilet at this point, but I’m desperate enough to look anywhere as the woman in front of me takes out her phone and starts scrolling Instagram, and it’s like she’s searched out waterfall pictures and reels with ocean sounds on purpose.
Is she trying to kill me?
I suck my lips into my mouth and do a little dance, hoping I’ll stumble upon a bucket suggestively labeled “Use this if you can’t hold your pee.”
When no such phantom item appears, I start to panic that this really is going to be like kindergarten all over again, except it’s far less acceptable to cover your own legs in urine at the age of thirty-one.
Just then, the door to the men’s restroom at the far end of the hall opens, and a guy steps out. He doesn’t meet any of our eyes as he passes us, but I can sense the casual aura of no-bathroom-wait-time rolling off him in waves.
I glance to the women in front of me again, not having shifted even an inch, and I come to a conclusion I’m not exactly proud of—I have to do it. I have no other option. I need to cross into enemy territory and lift my leg to piss—at least figuratively. Literally speaking, I’m really hoping there’s a stall.
I scoot around the women as inconspicuously as I can and beat feet toward the not-busy-at-all door the lone man left behind. It opens silently, and I peek my head in with trepidation.
“Hello?” I venture into the vastly undercrowded space.
No one answers, so I take one last deep breath of fresh air from the hallway and dip inside.
The stall door is cracked open in vacancy, and I fall on it like a vulture on roadkill. I’m so close to bursting, I’m shocked I managed to get this far without pissing on my shoes.
Still, even on the verge of my bladder exploding, I take the time to survey the environment. Men’s restrooms are seriously disgusting. I do not know how they live like this. I do not know how I will live like this one day, assuming I actually find someone to share my life. But that’s another story for a different day.
Today’s story involves peeing. Right effing now.
With bumbling, urgent hands, I grab some toilet paper and wipe furiously at the disgusting seat, toss the soiled paper in the toilet, grab some more and wipe at every physical surface there’s even a chance I might come into contact with. All while dancing around on my tiptoes.
