Just a Little Pee

I have a dilemma that nobody in my family seems to understand. In fact, not only do they not seem to understand my plight, they find it humorous. They laugh at me and make jokes…at my expense. I don’t find it humorous. Maybe some of you out there…specifically those of you who have given birth (and given birth MULTIPLE times)…can understand my issue. The issue of having dealt with unborn children using your bladder as a trampoline for nine or more months. The issue of coughing, sneezing, jumping, or laughing being mortal enemies of one’s…ahem…urinary tract integrity. The issue of wondering just how “discrete” and “panty-like” the new adult diapers are these days. Yeah, I’m talking about peeing yourself.

I’m not to proud to admit that some (ALL) of the aforementioned activities have caused me to lose control of my bladder in the past. Stay with me here, ladies (Men and children, you’re excused now). If you’re in shock right now you’ve either, 1, never given birth, 2, given birth to the most docile in-utero specimens who have never played soccer with your kidneys, or 3, have some wicked Kegal skills. I do not fall into any of those categories, hence the conundrum that I face on a regular basis. I’ve gotten used to having to squeeze my legs together when I go to comedy shows and begging off jumping rope and jumping jacks and any other jumping activities (thank God for small favors). I’m over the fact that I have to race to the bathroom to sneeze. (Instead of saying “God Bless You” when I sneeze, my husband asks “You need new underwear?” Snarky bastard.) I’ve come to peace with the fact I will probably never have a full night’s sleep again because I have to pee fifty times. But what I cannot for the life of me deal with any more is peeing on the treadmill.

Yes, you read that correctly. I, grown ass woman of 41 years on this earth,  have actually peed on the treadmill. Now before you’re thinking I just dropped my drawers and squatted on the damn thing, let me explain. I was running….really fast. Like 8 miles an hour fast. I was working hard, my body was giving it everything that it had. Every ounce of strength I had was devoted to keeping my heart and lungs and leg muscles going. In its overzealous state however, my body neglected to keep my bladder muscles going. So yeah, I peed my pants on the treadmill. And not just a little trickle. Oh no. A river. All the way down to my brand new shoes. In the GYM. On a Saturday morning. In the very first row of treadmills. With at least 50 to a 1000 people milling around.

Needless to say, I dashed out of there faster than…well, faster than me peeing myself at 8 miles an hour. I ran home and announced to my husband that I was NEVER going back to that gym ever again. After he was done clutching his sides to hold in his spleen that was threatening to come out of his mouth from him laughing so hard, he assured me that I was bluffing. He knows how much I like my runs. I was not bluffing. Now if it was the middle of summer, I’d say hey, I’ll run outside instead. Maybe by the time I need to run on a treadmill again, there will be a totally new crowd at the gym (it’s like they change out the people for the season at the gym…really weird). But no…it’s the smack dab middle of winter, there’s snow on the ground and it’s freaking cold. I NEED a treadmill.

Hence the reason I dragged the hubby out to test out close to a million treadmills (okay, SLIGHT exaggeration). I don’t bluff. Yup, I’m quitting the gym on the grounds that I’m MORTIFIED, so now I have to buy a machine to exercise in my basement in privacy. That way when my body shuts its “Non-essential” organs down, I can be ready with a towel. Or maybe I can line the belt with pee-pads that we used for potty training the dog. Or better yet, I’ll wear a diaper. Who cares, right? I’m at home and my family thinks it’s hysterical anyway. After all, I’ve given birth, therefore, I have no shame anymore. And apparently no bladder strength whatsoever.

 

 

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