Tinkle, Tinkle, Little Star.
First off, let me state that I will stop at nothing to entertain you, even at the expense of my own dignity.
So here goes:
Like many women over the age of 25 who do not have three hours a day to go to the gym, I occasionally wear a foundation garment under my clothes to smooth out some of my bumps and bulges. I wear Spanx brand “body shapers.”
Because Oprah said so.
I like to call them my self esteem panties.
One really awesome feature on them is that they have this split-crotch thing so it’s easier to go to the bathroom. However, I’m weird, and I wear regular panties under my self-esteem panties. So when I have to go number 1, I usually just pull my regular panties and my self-esteem panties to the side like when I’m wearing a bathing suit and let her rip.
However, today, while I perform this task we call peeing, which a four-year-old can perform without error, I suddenly feel Not Right. I feel warm. I feel warm where I shouldn’t feel warm.
I thought I had my panties pulled to the side, but apparently not sufficiently. I’m now sitting in the stall, wet, humiliated, and frozen with terror.
I peed myself. I. Peed. Myself. At work. I am almost 28 years old and I wet my pants.
My rational brain then woke up and shook the shoulders of Freaking Out Amber:
Rational Amber: Dude, you gotta shake this off. Be cool, okay? Just pull your wet drawers off, put ’em in a baggy, go back to your desk, and text Andrew. He will bring you clean underwear. You can do this.
Freaking out Amber: Okay, okay…baggy. Where do I get a baggy? WHERE?!
Rational Amber: Look in the cupboard by the sink.
Freaking Out Amber: *tears through cupboard* …there aren’t any! There! Aren’t! Any! Oh my GOD I have to carry my wet panties to my desk. I HAVE NO POCKETS!
Rational Amber: Calm down. Calm the fuck down, dude. There are spare bags for sanitary napkins over there. Grab one of those.
Freaking Out Amber: *hurriedly stores shame panties in wax paper bag and crumples it into her fist* Okay. Okay. I’m cool. Here we go. Back to our desk.
I speedwalk back to my desk and, before I can shove the evidence into my bag, my coworker asks what’s in the paper bag. I’m still recovering from my freak out and can’t come up with a good lie, so I sigh and say, “….if you MUST know…” which was enough for her to not require further explanation.
And then, as I shove the bag into my purse, a terrible realization dawns on me: I don’t have my cell phone. I can’t text Andrew discreetly to have him rescue me. I can’t rely on his seeing an email, either, because it’s nearly his lunch hour and he may not see it until it’s too late and he’s already back to work.
FUUUUUUUUUUUUUCK. What did people do when they peed themselves 20 years ago? There will be questions. Questions I will have to answer out loud.
I pick up my work phone, dial Andrew, and try to determine if there is a way I can tell him in code that I need him to bring me a new pair of underwear.
Amber: I don’t have my cell phone.
Andrew: I know.
Amber: Are you going home for lunch?
Andrew: Do we have food?
Amber: No, I guess we don’t.
Andrew: Then I’m probably just going to pick something up.
Amber: Okay…*panic* …never mind.
Andrew: Why? What do you need?
Andrew: Oh. Period?
Amber: I really don’t want to talk about this at work.
Andrew: It’s a yes or no question!
Amber: Okay. No.
Andrew: Okay, I’ll be there in a little bit.
While I realize that I pretty much fail at adulthood if I can’t even pee correctly, I knew I couldn’t fail you, the reader, by sparing you all the mortifying details. You’re welcome.