Herbietown - A Bathroom Vignette

A Bathroom Vignette

You know how you make your kids go to the bathroom before they leave the house?

So last night I had a work dinner.  A couple drinks, nothing crazy.  It was one of those nice restaurants where they have servers hovering over your table, filling up your water glass every time you take a sip.  Like Chinese restaurants in the 80s.

I was consciously forcing myself to drink water, because that’s what I do on days when I fly.  That dry reprocessed air on the plane is terrible for you.  So I drank and drank and they kept filling me up.

Also, and very germaine to this story, I was wearing my tight jeans.  I have this one pair that run small.  They look great on me, so people say, but they’re a little, uh, restricting.

Right at the end of dessert, nature called.  I figured I would just hit the men’s room on the way out.  But then I got caught up in a conversation on the way to the door and next thing I know I’m on the sidewalk waiting for the valet.  It was like 30 degrees, which helped me forget that I meant to make a pit stop.

As soon as I sat down in my car, I remembered, with a vengeance.  Too lazy (or too stupid) to go back inside, I set the GPS and drove back to my brother-in-law’s.  I was about to explode and yet I got behind the wheel anyway.  It hurt.  I felt like a bloated whale.  I supposed I could have done the Dumb and Dumber thing, or just pulled over at a gas station, but there were no good options and it was mostly highway.  So I drove like 85 mph and rocked back and forth in my seat, miserable.  It was the longest ride ever.

There is no punch line to this story.  I made it.  My bladder didn’t explode.  It was gloriously relieving.  Thank you.

Killer boots, man

Killer boots, man