You’re sitting cross legged, waiting your turn in the Show And Tell circle. You’re wiggling from one bum cheek to the other trying to hold on. It’s nearly your go and you keep raising your arm, stretching and pointing your finger to the ceiling in desperation. Thomas is talking about his pet turtle that did a wee on the new carpet and all this toilet talk is making it hard to breathe. All of a sudden you can’t wait any longer… release! A hot, moist cloud erupts between your legs and seeps around to your bottom.
It’s 1988. You’re 6 years old, and you’ve wet your pants.
A week ago, my last wetting-the-pants-at-school memory was superseded, replaced, renewed, usurped, displaced… by a new one. That’s right.
It’s 2010. I’m 28 years old, and I wet my pants.
Now let’s not get all dramatic about this. I know you’re imagining me out on the town, sipping my soy latte, bouncing and cooing to Baby on my knee and chatting to the waitress about what a fabulous day it is, all the while a pale yellow puddle pooling at my feet. It was actually much less eventful, but nonetheless disturbing.
I’m trying to get fit, see. My goal is a 5km fun run in December, and Prince Charming has set me a little program to get me going. The first wee incident (did I mention there were 2…) occurred last Wednesday night. It was my second run (read: walk/jog/hyperventilate) and it was night time. I grabbed the tougher looking of my two dogs and took off up the road. I was about half way around the 3km loop when I felt a scarily uncontrollable and most unfamiliar release between my legs. A feeling of horror overwhelmed me. Am I wetting my pants? As I headed up hill, in the dark, not thinking for a second that anyone would be behind me, I took both my hands and ran them along my inner thighs – they were dry. The damage was apparently not as bad as I had imagined. Unfortunately, at that moment, the TRIATHLETE from my mother’s group bounced past on the other side of the road and overtook me. S***!!! I couldn’t tell whether or not she had seen me so I tried to make some leading jokes the next time I saw her and it appears – appears – she didn’t and/or is too polite to say anything about me groping my inner thighs in the dark on a dimly lit street last Wednesday.
The second wee incident was slightly more dire and occurred on Monday night. I was feeling cocky by this stage, and when we were talking about getting fit at mother’s group, I agreed to meet one of the girls for a run that night. An edge of competition overtook me and yes, I pushed myself harder than I probably should have. We were coming to the end of a 5km loop when a couple of bogans with a slab of beer between them came out of the bottle shop and started making bogan-like comments directed our way. We quickened our pace and at the top of the street decided I would go back to the other mummy’s house and she would drive me home. As we were arranging this we saw the bogan pair head into the pizza shop so I put on a brave face and said I would ‘just run’ the 1km back to my place. [I loved the way the words ‘just run’ slipped with ease off the end of my tongue.]
So off I bolted, this time, the feeling of release became more of a steady rush as I puffed and strode and galloped all the way home. I didn’t feel the need to touch my inner thighs to figure out whether or not what I thought had happened, had happened. There was no mistaking what was going down in my pants. My fear of the bogans kept me going and I made it home. I gushed in the front door, heaving through red cheeks.
‘I wet my pants!’ I exclaimed to Prince Charming.
He looked at me in brief astonishment before saying, ‘Can you go out the back and feed the bunnies?’
‘Did you hear me? I said I wet my pants!’
‘I know, guess you’d better get stuck into those pelvic floor exercises. There’s some vegies in the fridge downstairs.’
‘You seriously want me to go outside? I’ve wet myself!’
He nodded, ‘It’s cold out there and you’ve just been out.’
‘Um, are you even a little bit sympathetic? I wet my pants! I’ve got urine in my undies! I’m 28 and I peed myself! I’ve done my dash! I’ve got a big wet patch on my pants! Your wife lost it in her knickers!’ I went on a little…
He laughed and I realised I was not going to get the reaction I was hoping for (something along the lines of: Oh Crap! would have done the trick.) I ignored his pleas and went and had a shower.
I haven’t been out again since. I’m planning to give it another go tomorrow night. Weesh me luck!