This post was written by a regular xoJane contributor who was too chicken to put her name on this story. Guess who she is in the comments!
First things first: If you are one of those folks who gets enraged every time we at xoJane overshare about private stuff, then A) you must be mad ALL THE TIME and B) stop reading! Stop reading right now! It's about to get real.
All right, with that out of the way: ZOMG you guys what is wrong with me? I have peed myself three times in the past few months. THRICE!
I will now proceed to discuss each of these instances in varying degrees of humiliating detail. You have been re-warned.
The first time was perhaps the worst, because it involved potential property damage. I was out to brunch, slamming iced coffee like a champ, having a fun chat with a gal pal. At one point, I realized I sorta had to pee.
It occurred to me that I really ought to stop in the bathroom at the restaurant. I dismissed the notion, figuring I could surely hold it until I got to my gentleman caller's house a few neighborhoods over. After all, public restrooms are weird, and his bathroom is nice and familiar. Right? Great idea!
I did not count on traffic.
A trip that my GPS told me would take 15 minutes actually took 60. Sixty freaking minutes. It was an hour that began with mild bladder discomfort and concluded with me making a screeching turn onto my dude friend's street, barreling toward my usual parking spot with a bladder that was screaming for relief.
That's when I noticed that it was street cleaning day. NO PARKING ALLOWED.
In my neighborhood, we do not have street cleaning. Our streets are pleasantly dirty and we like it that way. It makes our lowriders look tough and our tacos taste fantastic.
But in his fancypants neighborhood, where every lawn is manicured and every sprinkler set to a precise timer, there is street cleaning. And this meant that I was forbidden to park my car near his house. In my time of greatest urinary need, I had to park a couple of blocks away.
I know that's no big deal when you only have to pee a little, but when you've got an impending waterfall swelling within you, two blocks is a lot.
I parked, jumped out of the car without my purse, and ran straight for his house. If I could just get to the door. If I could just get to the door...
When I hit his front walkway, the dam sprung a leak.
GAAAH! This was bad! But not so bad -– I was so close to rushing into his house, where the front door was always open, and dashing to his bathroom. In the scant few seconds before I would reach the toilet, I'd probably do about as little damage to my underthings as I might during a particularly hearty laugh (I'm getting old).
That's when I hit the door, and attempted to wrench it open.
It was locked.
He wasn't home.
Perhaps he'd grown tired of waiting for me and decided to go pick up a delicious pizza. Perhaps he'd met a fascinating, magical talking cat and decided to run away with her to France. I had no idea where he was. All I knew was that I was doomed. And so, by extension, was his front porch.
That's how I ended up peeing all over the entrance to a guy's house. My Spanx got ruined first. Then my skirt. Somehow I was peeing so much that some of it ended up in my cowboy boots (I know, I know, this is gross).
By the time I had summoned the good sense to jump onto the lawn, it was too late. The porch had been splattered. The sanctity of the front walkway had been been besmirched.
My first thought was: Must eliminate evidence. Thinking fast, I espied a hose lying on the front lawn. I grabbed it, yanked it up to the front porch, and sprayed away.
Only then did it occur to me that when he did in fact return home, I'd have to explain to him why I'd power-washed the front of his home.
I paced anxiously in front of his house, waiting for him to show up. It felt like hours, but it was only about 15 minutes.
He greeted me with a hug, but before he could say anything, I said, "I had to use the hose on your house."
"Why?" he asked.
"Because I peed on it," I said. "By mistake."
He nodded slowly, then sniffed the air.
"I don't want you to feel bad," he said. "But it still smells a little. Let me get some soap."
"Oh, my GOD!" I shrieked. "This is the WORST!"
"It happens," he said, patting my back reassuringly. "Don't worry. I'll take care of it."
I don't know if you've ever watched a loved one cover his front porch in organic dish soap because you pissed on it, but it's a special kind of feeling. As he hosed it down like nothing was out of the ordinary, I reflected that this was, indeed, a special man.
I also assumed it was a one-time thing.
But ha! NO! It happened twice more within the next three months after I got stuck in traffic! OK, not to the alarming degree that it did at the guy's house -– in the other two cases, I managed to rush into a gas station bathroom before beginning to leak.
But, like, what gives? I'm not some freaking cat who is trying to send a message with my pee. Do you guys think I need to go to the doctor? Do I need to do Kegels? And, good Lord, has anything like this ever happened to you –- you know, as an adult?