“By the time I get around to having kids we’ll both be in diapers.”
They were my words and they were looking pretty prophetic as I struggled to get a small child, a week’s worth of groceries and my bursting bladder into the house before there was a tidal wave.
I dropped the groceries and headed for the bathroom. When this particular crisis hits, I have a method of locomotion I like to call the rocking crotch lock. One foot is in front of the point of leakage and one foot is behind the point of leakage. The thighs are clenched together at the aforementioned point of leakage. It is then possible to rock towards your target.
I perfected this move in grade one, when potty training was not such a dim memory. My goal at the time was the bathroom and when the teacher asked me what I was doing I replied, “I’m dancing”. There was laughter but there were no puddles.
I prefer this position to the splayed at the knees method, which while allowing the point of leakage to be effectively sealed, does not allow for speedy forward movement. It is also raises hell with your arthritis. Furthermore it reeks of ridiculing the disabled, while the rocking crotch lock is more like ridiculing modern dance.
I have come to an age where the print isn’t big enough, the announcements aren’t loud enough and there aren’t enough bathrooms.
I have thought about purchasing some of those incontinence products, especially for car trips but I can’t bring myself to take them up to the cashier.
The adult diaper section is such a place of solitude that is easy to forget the world outside. No one is ever browsing in this particular area of the drug store and no one with a name tag is ever around to answer questions. Should I commit a crime and need to hide out till the heat is off, I’m heading to the nearest adult diaper display.
Within this atmosphere of tranquility it is easy to imagine other possibilities, such as never consuming liquids again, a commode under the driver’s seat or sticking the goods up my shirt and making a break for it.
I think of the long walk to the cashier. I ask myself which is more embarrassing, buying these things or maybe, wetting myself in public. And halfway through this deliberation I’m hit with a grim realization. I gotta go, now.
