Am I Too Young For Depends?

Doesn't it always go this way?

I had to pee. I always have to pee because I'm on 50 mg of hydrochlorothiazide, which is a diuretic to help get rid of the tremendous water retention caused by 20 mg of prednisone, which is a steroid used to treat my joint pain and the sarcoid nodules all over my legs and arms. (They're all gone, by the way, just scarring left behind, which is not so bad.) So, I need to use the washroom roughly every 90 minutes. And often it hits me so fast, so urgently, that as soon as I stand up for something, I find myself not doing whatever it was that I was going to do, and instead running to the washroom. I try not to stand too often.

So, I was at the desk and had to show someone how to turn the volume down on their computer, which required me to stand up, and thus, required me to have to pee. As I instructed the user on volume control, I shifted my weight from leg to leg, squeezing my thighs together, hoping I wouldn't sneeze, laugh or cough for at least another 2 minutes. As I finished and began walking with my eyes focused on the 3-mile distance to the washroom door, someone else approached the desk with a 2-page fax to send.

I put the pages through, with the intention of conducting my business in the washroom while the communicating fax machines conducted their business. Not so. The fax-sender was chatty. She had comments to make about the weather (which I don't even want to talk about because I'm convinced it's going to kill me this year), about the holidays, and about other things I didn't even hear because my bladder was seizing up and shooting shards of crystallized urine all over my abdomen, out of some automatic weapon it must have quickly bought in anticipation of Obama taking office.

KA-POW! Ooof, I think that one hit my remaining ovary. KER-BLAM! Guuuhg, now I have holes in my upper intestines. Thankfully it is aiming low and not at my lungs, which would surely make me cough, and then... CHA-CHUNK! [Gurgle, sputter, cough.] At least I wore dark pants today.

Finally the two-page fax went through and I needed only to await the printing of the confirmation page.

Paper jam.

The paper refed correctly, but due to the fact that the first page of the 2-page fax was on red paper with pink hearts, the time required to print the confirmation (which includes a copy of the first page sent) took about 6 hours for it to print out. By then I was doubled over, leaning on the fax, inhaling what will surely be my death in toner fumes, grimacing and trying to will the blasted machine to print faster.

I handed the confirmation to her and as I started to walk away, the phone rang.

Fuck the phone. I let it go to voice mail.

I lack the correct verb to describe the action I used in getting to the washroom. Do you know what people look like when they do speed walking? That was sorta me. I could've started a fire with my thighs rubbing so tight, so fast, clenched fiercely, which was working in direct opposition to the movement necessary to propel me forward. Why isn't our bladder and urethra placed somewhere unaffected by the limbs needed to get you somewhere to relieve them? This is proof enough to me that there is no god and we are not perfect specimens. The bladder should be elsewhere and not effect your ability to walk to a toilet to relieve it.

Okay, when I finally made it to the washroom and attempted to close the stall door, I realized the lock is tight and it takes a small amount of concerted effort between your fingers and arm, pulling the door closed and turning with a little more effort than should be required to close and lock the stall door. (Note to self: WD-40 this fucker later on.) Three tries later and I got the door closed and locked. Time to drop trou.

As I was wigging and wrestling with my fasteners, I gazed down into the toilet (always a mistake, by the way) and noticed small, multi-colored balls in the bottom of the bowl, about the color, size and shape of earth-toned jellybeans. First thought was that a deer pooped her ("her" because it's a women's washroom) pellets in our toilet. Then the rainbow colors of white, beige, brown, and slightly greenish made me think otherwise. These looked very familiar, but my urine was already down the urethra and about to shoot out of me. DISTRACTIONS! EVIL DISTRACTIONS!

My need to pee took priority over the need to identify the colored pellets in the toilet, so I just spun around and went. Afterward, I tried to stand up quickly to identify the little toilet bowl accessories, but the automatic flusher kicked on too quickly. Some were lost, but some stayed behind. Now that my urinary tract was beginning to relax, I found myself bent over, staring into the toilet bowl, gazing upon the toilet bowl gravel. Lovely sight, I assure you.

And that's when it hit me!

This was fish tank gravel sitting in the bottom of our toilet bowl.

Evil, heinous, distracting fish tank gravel, trying to make me pee myself a foot away from the object of my aim.

Were there also fish in there? Perhaps a plant or two? Did I just pee on and then flush our newest pet's home? I felt no creature poking me from below. No wisp of plastic plant life swaying in the current. No bubbly cries for mercy from a fish receiving a golden shower. No indication at all that my actions had consequences other than my own pleasurable relief. So, was it really just fish tank gravel in the toilet?

We may never know.

Also, when I walk past the fish tank, I am reminded that it is but a gigantic toilet as well, and the next time so many forces in the universe conspire to keep me from peeing in the proper receptacle, well, let's just say that the gravel has given me an alternate plan.

Poor fishies.