Let’s talk about me for a minute. I turn 33 next week and I have peed my pants more times than my son did during our first failed attempt at potty training. I was probably in elementary school the first time I can recall it happening. I had went to one of those summer reading clubs at the local library and I remember being nervous on my first day for some reason. My mom sent me with a check to pay for it, but no one ever asked for money so I put it on the seat under me for safe keeping. There was about a dozen or so of us all sitting around a table while the librarian was walking us through the instructions for the craft in front of us. I was wearing a floral bodysuit and denim skirt, obviously on top of the fashion game even back then. I remember I had to pee really badly but I was too shy to speak up so I tried to hold it. And then it happened. I peed. I was young and naïve enough to think no one would notice as I excused myself to the bathroom – which ironically was right behind me the whole time. Before I could get safely inside to assess the damage, the girl next to me picked up the sopping wet check that was on my chair and held it up for everyone to see as she yelled, “Teacher, this paper was on her chair and it’s all wet!” At this point everyone is now staring at me so I think fast and mutter something about spilling my water. Only we were in a library and they don’t allow food or drinks in a library. I fooled no one.

From there it became a pattern, really. I was notorious for peeing on the blocks at a swim meet while waiting for my heat to start because it was better than peeing IN the pool, no? And then there was the time I peed in the hallway of my high school senior year. That one made the yearbook. I was standing around my locker with a few girlfriends and we started laughing so hard over who knows what, that before I knew it there was a puddle on the floor beneath me. I sprinted to the bathroom to hide out until someone could find me a change of clothes. I thought MAYBE, just MAYBE when I came back out in dry clothes no one would even know what had happened. Eh. Wrong. A crowd had now gathered around the puddle waiting for the kid on his knees smelling it to confirm whether or not it was piss. You can imagine their reaction when he proudly exclaimed it was in fact piss. Well shit. The principle eventually made everyone get to class except for the kid brave enough to smell it. As punishment he had to stand guard to make sure no one would slip until the janitor could get there to mop it up. Sorry, Dude.

Fast forward to my adult years with two vaginal births thrown into the mix, and the only thing that has changed is that I’ve gotten much better at covering my tracks and disposing of the evidence. I peed on my chair at work once and switched it out with the chair in the empty cube a couple rows over. You’re welcome, new guy. My mom has even had to help cover for me. I mean that’s what mothers are for, right? This one time we were out of state for a friend’s wedding and I peed right there on the floor of the bar in the middle of our conversation. It just sort of sneaked up on me. We both looked at each like “now what?”, but before we could even say anything someone walked over to join in on the conversation. Thinking quick, my mom grabbed a bar stool and slid it over the top and said someone must have spilled their drink so watch your step. That was my cue to then excuse myself to the restroom while I attempted to get my life in order. Luckily I was wearing a dress so I simply took off my underwear and threw it away. Girl, bye. That’s the move. They are front line soldiers so they absorb most of the damage. You gotta get them off before they soak through to your pants, and there’s no point in keeping them considering you can buy them in bulk just about anywhere.

For some reason this one time though I felt the need to wrap them in toilet paper and hide them in the inside zipper of my laptop bag where, incidentally, they sat for several months. Now the sad thing is I’ve peed my pants so many times in my life I honest to God can’t even recall every occurrence. The only reason I even know the general timeframe of this specific incident is because that was probably the last time I carried that particular bag and the toilet paper around the underwear had yellowed by the time I discovered it. What I’m assuming was months later, I pulled the bag out of my cubbie in an attempt to carry everything  to a meeting without spilling my coffee. For this particular meeting the room was divided into tables with 4-5 of my colleagues at each one. Naturally I took a seat at a table with all males and {inevitably} spilled some of my coffee the moment I sat down. As luck would have it, I found a wad of toilet paper shoved in the inside pocket to mop it up with. As I’m unraveling it, still a little confused as to why I have so much toilet paper in my laptop bag to begin with, I spot a piece of pale pink lace peeking out from the center and I freeze. A rookie would have pulled that sucker right out to investigate the suspicious fabric, but not me. I’m a seasoned vet so I knew IMMEDIATELY what I was dealing with. I mean, could you imagine? Me, sitting in a room with a bunch of well-respected peers, whipping out a crusty thong right there onto the table occupied by ALL MEN. I would have died. And that would be it. My career would be over in the blink of an eye. Finished. Done. I would have handed in my badge and scraped together any piece of dignity I had left to make a clean exit before rolling over and dying.

“Always leave a place better than when you found it,” they say.

My parents are so proud of me.