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