When I was eleven or so, a good friend of our family informed me that when women got older they sometimes lost control of their bladders. She was telling me this because she had just run full-force across a field to help her young daughter catch her pony that had just run away from the barn. In the process, this woman had also wet her pants. Her white pants. Completely. I fell on the ground with her daughter in fits of laughter, pointing at this poor woman who was now standing in the middle of a field, holding a pony, humiliated in her very wet pants.
Obviously, I’ve never forgotten this.
And now I am older. And I am sorry that I ever laughed at her. Because I think the universe has decided that it’s now my turn to suffer public humiliation. It is now time for me to wet my pants.
As you all know, I turned 40 in January. I swear our bodies actually do come with alarm clocks because from the moment I turned 40, I feel as if the warranty on this body of mine has definitely expired.
My back suddenly aches. I don’t seem quite so flexible. My periods are horrific. I suffer from insomnia. And if I don’t find a bathroom the minute my body says it’s time to go, I will surely have an accident and find myself standing on the sidewalk, holding a bag of groceries, humiliated by my very wet pants and the puddle down below.
As a matter of public service, there should be a nice little pamphlet that you’re given when you reach your 40th year on this planet that provides you with some guidelines. We insist upon nursery school for four year olds to make sure they’re properly prepared for life. And those four year olds must be completely potty-trained before moving on to kindergarten.
The potty-training warranty must also expire at 40. Hit 40 and your body forgets everything it ever learned about bladder control.
Which means that if you’re standing in line at the grocery store waiting to pay for groceries and you suddenly need to go to the bathroom you should just ditch your place in line and go find the nearest toilet. You might think that you can wait while the guy in front of you pays for his sliced turkey and Odwalla juice and even while they ring up your eleven items and you pay for those and then walk your groceries the three blocks back to your house. Oh yes, you might think that is all very doable. In fact, it used to be completely fine. But not since you hit 40. Oh no. Now the rules have changed.
By the time you cross in front of the Nickelodeon movie theatre that warm wet feeling will already have arrived between your legs. Not a sexy warm wet feeling. Nonono! It’s an OH MY GOD, I’M PEEING ON MYSELF warm wet feeling.
And you’ll hope against hope that the Nickelodeon is open for business and you can just jump inside and use the bathroom. But of course it isn’t and you have to still make it two more blocks to your house. But now you’re completely aware of this warm, wet feeling between your legs and you’re doing your best Kegel exercises to keep everything inside instead of outside, but with each step a little more seems to squeak out. Swearing now, you think to yourself you’re not old enough yet for Depends, and you’re almost loping along the sidewalk praying to all the gods and goddesses you can remember that you will not run into anyone that you know.
The gods and goddesses fall off their clouds laughing. Because this is Santa Cruz and you know everyone, so of course you run into someone you know. Now you’re standing there, groceries in one hand, warm wet feeling creeping in larger quantities down the insides of both your legs, shuffling from one foot to another, trying to make polite conversation, certain that you’re going to make one huge puddle of pee right there on the sidewalk.
Perhaps it’s the manic look in your eyes, or maybe it’s your fidgeting, but the person you know lets you escape without too much trouble and now you’re just half a block from home. You’re searching frantically for your keys because you want to be able to unlock the door the moment you hit it. The warm wet feeling is only growing larger and yet your bladder also feels like it will positively explode up through your own eyeballs and gush out your mouth if you do not get relief within the very next second.
You are now holding your breath. Breathing is no longer an option, because the pressure the air puts on your engorged bladder only makes things worse. So red faced, not breathing, you sprint the last ten yards to your front door. You unlock it. You drop the groceries on top of the poor dog who has been lying there all day waiting for your return and while doing a striptease that would never win any tips in Vegas, you dashdashdash to the toilet.
Just the mere thought that you’re finally going to be able to release all that pent up pee causes even more of it to squirt down your legs. You slide onto the toilet seat, let out a huge primal sigh and just let it all gush out while examining the damage to both your underpants and pants. Exactly how wet are they? Can you still wear them or will you have to go searching for yet another outfit to wear? Does it smell? Maybe just ditch the underware? These questions really do knock around your brain as you also marvel that so much liquid could possibly still come out of one leaky bladder.
A nice little pamphlet on the 40th birthday explaining that all of this is quite normal, not to freak out about it, and what you can do about it would be a very nice thing to receive.
Consider this your pamphlet.
It's Naked Mom's birthday today. She's 62! Of course, if she talks to you in AOL IM, she'll tell you she's 52 because she doesn't feel like she could possibly be 62! She's just not that old.
