A Drop in the Bucket

I have always been a firm believer that life can be broken down into three main parts: childhood, adulthood, and second childhood. Sure, there are lovely gray areas in between, but largely life is just one jolly bell curve, with the early years mimicking the later years in many ways. A person rises up out of the dependence in their youth, to being strong and independent, and then slides back down and out into dependence again.  

As a child and as an elderly person, naps and mushy food are totally acceptable. As is saying whatever it is on your mind – although sometimes that can be less endearing and more so bitter with age, your years on this earth can still serve as a passable excuse to be as vocal as you want. The depth perception of a child is that of a tiny drunkard, and as eyesight begins to wane, older people also find themselves in strange battles with objects that are closer than they appear. Just ask my grandma. Lucky thing we built her garage with a doggie-door style back wall so when she decided to go through it with her car it just opened right up for her to go off-roading in the back yard. No harm done. Just like the little kid who runs into the glass patio door.

Certain things that might be okay on either side of the bell curve, however, fall into the “frowned upon” category for the middle “adulthood” section and its surrounding gray zones. Like having someone else make your appointments for you (thanks, mom) or not wearing pants in public. Negative adult points.

Other things you just never really expect to happen in the middle zone. Like getting shampoo in your eyes. Remember the “no tear” baby shampoo and how somehow not getting soap in your eyeballs was a huge struggle? And then suddenly it wasn’t anymore? I’ve gotten shampoo in my eyes maybe twice in the past ten years. Both times were absolutely awful, entirely unexpected, and followed by great distress. We all take pain-free shampooing for granted. Just like the other key thing you never expect to happen in the middle zone… peeing your pants.

Yeah, it's kind of like that. Ominous. 

A particularly jovial happy hour filled with obnoxious cry-laughing with the lady-pals can of course bring a gal to jokingly blurt out how she may just pee her pants, but the odds of it actually happening are slim. You’re a g’damn lady, and will have none of that nonsense. Lest alone in public and in front of friends who would hold that over your head till the grave.

Then one day as you’re leaving work, you think, “Hm, maybe I should use the restroom before I drive home.” Naw. You’ll be fine. But as you leave, your co-workers kidnap you to happy hour. Distracted, you throw back a few diet cokes and some gossip and then head out, bladder forgotten. Walk to your car, hit the road. It’s only after the first pothole that you realize. You might not make it. Every pothole after is excruciating. You accelerate, silently praying that you don’t hit any red lights. But you do. You hit every single one. And end up behind that vehicle that is inexplicably going 26 in a 30 zone. 30 MEANS 35, you soulless monster! They are obviously doing it on purpose. This is all some sort of penance.

Thirty blocks from home, you concede and pull off in the ghetto to stop at a gas station. The kind of gas station with bullet-proof glass around the cashiers and with no rolly hot dog machine.  Where you wish you could bring your car into the bathroom with you so it doesn’t get scared being left alone in this neighborhood. This is a place you’ve never even thought to stop at before. You hit the bullet-proof wall, an uncanny desperation in your voice, and quickly ask for the location of the restroom. Employees only, they say. Only. Employees. After a fruitless exchange in which you kindly plea for them to make an exception, you threateningly throw it out there that it’s actually illegal to withhold the use of a restroom from someone with certain medical conditions. They ask what condition you have. You scoff/shriek and sprint out of the gas station. This argument through the glass is wasting precious time.

That thirty blocks turns into a waking nightmare. You finally arrive home, now walking slowly so as not to jostle the contents of your overly pissed off bladder. Go to open the door. The keys fall from your hand. Looking down at them on the ground, you want to shed a single tear. How could you possibly bend over to get them? There is NO way that could end well. 

This is the point of no return. 

A deep breath and a moment of decision later and you have rapidly dropped, grabbed the keys, thrown open the door and begun sprinting like the devil up your stairs, down the hall and into the bathroom. You and your dignity made it. This time…