I Pee Myself

This past weekend I had the privilege of getting together with some college girlfriends whom I haven't seen in a long, long time.  And we weren't just any gals that happened to spend time together in our college days; no, we were the girls who held each others' hair back while we puked; the ones who picked each other up after terrible breakups—the ones we'd shared our dreams and ambitions with.

Needless to say, I was looking forward to this reunion with unbridled anticipation!

I was third to arrive at the beautiful lake house, and after making probably the only important decision I would need to make during my stay—whether to sleep in the bedroom with the leopard-print sheets or the one with the cozy blue country decor—we settled in, reminisced, procured some fancy wine and donned our bathing suits for a delicious soak in the hot tub. 

We retold the usual college stories: the ones involving guys we wish we'd kissed and guys we regret kissing in the first place, and occasionally a new confession would arise and we would all gasp in amazement that our friend had kept us in the dark about said scandal for all these years!

But once we had downed enough booze, the conversation turned.  We began lamenting what our bodies had become since hitting thirty.  Gray hairs were cursed at repeatedly (which I personally think only served to anger said hairs, causing them to recruit troops even more rapidly for the inevitable takeover),  boobs were likened to saggy pancakes, bellies and butts were disparaged, and fat rolls were treated as stealthy shape-shifting invaders from another planet.

We talked of all the ways our bodies had betrayed us as we had gotten older.  Eventually, when we ran out of wine, we relocated from the hot tub to the bar in the basement where there was more alcohol to fortify us for the depressing conversation.  The lamentations continued over various bottles of liquor.

There were the usual statements like, "Oh yeah? You think your boobs are saggy?  I can hold a whole pack of markers under mine!"  And "When did my ass get so huge?"

All was going well until I chimed in with, "And don't you hate it when you laugh too hard or jump around too much and accidentally pee yourself?!"

Silence.  Stares of disbelief.  Everyone just gaped at me—stunned.  It was sort of like one of those moments in a crowded bar when suddenly everything goes quiet and you hear some random guy drunkenly shout, "And so then the fire department had to come and surgically remove my penis from the hole in the tree!  Who wants to see the scar?!"

I turned beet red.  One of the girls quietly said, "Really?  Wow... that sucks."  Another girl, in awe, said "Yeah, you definitely win with that one."

Apparently I had just won the "most pitiful problem since turning thirty or having children" game, and I silently wondered how convincing I could be if I shouted "Just kidding!"  Two of the gals who openly  planned on never having children high-fived each other and said, "Well, another reason not to have kids!  Glad we won't have to worry about that!"

I didn't think this "involuntary peeing" was such an unusual problem; in fact, I'd heard about it frequently amongst my circles of local mommy friends.  But here, with this crew, I felt like some bizarre freak-pageant winner.

I wondered when I would be presented with my official "I PEE MYSELF" sash.

I decided not to tell them the details about how, right after my son's birth, I had partially choked on an apple slice and had wet myself so badly that I had soaked my pajamas and limped upstairs, hysterically sobbing, to tell my husband that I just couldn't take it—he would have to take care of our son for the evening while a very understanding girlfriend (who happened to be a nurse and was completely unfazed by such things) escorted me to CVS and held my hand as I hobbled down the "incontinence" aisle in a state of absolute horror and depression.  

No, I didn't tell that story.  Instead, I believe I shouted rather desperately, "Who wants another round of shots!?"  How about this stuff?!   I pointed to a bottle that looked like this:

Never having studied Spanish in school, I announced that I wanted to try the "El-May-Whore"... which nearly got me laughed off the proverbial island.  We did a few shots and then made some mixed drinks that put the Kool-Aid-and-plastic-bottle-vodka concoctions we drank in college to shame.  We got tipsy and silly, and it was glorious to be together again, laughing and shouting over each others' conversations, occasionally losing our balance and collapsing on top of each other in fits of giggles.

At some point, after much alcohol had been consumed, we thought it would be awesome to do an interpretive dance to that quintessential classic: "Baby Got Back."  Someone queued up the song on her iPod, and we all grabbed our rumps and began smacking them and swinging them wildly about in the direction of whomever was filming at the time.  It was our own "thirty-something" take on Girls Gone Wild (minus the boob-flashing and girl-on-girl action.)  We did, however, lament the absence of a stripper pole, which we believed would have added considerable interest to our performance.

Towards the end of the song, whatever alcohol I had ingested inspired me to repeatedly whip one of my friends in the rear with a super-sized Twizzler before tying it around my neck (the Twizzler, not her butt).  In short, it was epic, and while I am dying to share the video here, I have sworn a solemn oath never to let it go public.  (And despite my husband's assertion that it's a bunch of shaky-blurry schlock that makes no sense at all, I am personally certain that it would become an instant internet sensation, get featured on Tosh.O, and eventually get us nominated for "America's Got Talent.")

This was just like college—except in some ways it was better.  We were now adults who knew what and how much we could drink without completely regretting it, so no one was throwing up all night or so hung-over the next morning that she couldn't go swimming.  And no one was crying over a boy or trying to wander out and find one to take home.

Our company was enough, and it was perfect.

On my final afternoon at the lake house, we were involved in a game of Blokus—an intriguing strategy game that is incredibly frustrating for those of us who aren't good at spatial-awareness type endeavors—and I suddenly felt tears forming behind my eyes.  Before I knew it, I was weeping on my pretty plastic Tetris-shaped game pieces, causing them to float about in a shallow saltwater moat of sadness and gratitude.

I couldn't believe how quickly the weekend had gone by, and as much as I missed my family, I didn't want to leave these dear girls who had played such an essential part in my life over the years.   We had come together for the weekend from various states on the East Coast, and I had no idea when I would see them all again.  It made me sad for all that was lost, and incredibly grateful for all we still had.

So to my girls, who've definitely still "got it," I love you, I miss you, and I thank you for one of the best weekends of my post-thirty life. 

But I've got one bone to pick—where's my damn sash already?

Oh, wait... here it is—and I model it like a pro, if I do say so myself!

This picture was taken during our drunken fun, and I just thought it was the perfect shot to use for the sash!