Last night I went out for drinks with a friend of mine and made the mistake of not stopping in the restroom on the way out of the bar. So on the way home I had to pee. Pants-pissingly so. It was one of those situations so dire you actually find yourself thinking, “I mean, would it really be SO bad if I pissed myself on the subway? It’s not like I KNOW any of these people. Homeless people do it all the time.”
Finally, the train crept into the 2nd Avenue subway station and I hobbled up the stairs and on towards my apartment. I was about to cross at the corner of Houston and 1st when suddenly the little red hand on the crosswalk sign stopped flashing. Oh hells no. There was no way I could wait through another round of traffic with two glasses of water and four rum and Cokes threatening to come pouring over my beaver dam. My PC muscles were already at their limit. (I won’t have to do Kegels for at least a year.)
So I sprinted across the street except, halfway there, my shoe fell off. There was no time. I had 6 lanes of traffic bearing down upon me. I didn’t even have time to lean down and pick up the footwear. So instead I shrieked, left it in the middle of the street and dashed to the sidewalk where a small crowd was watching with some amusement. For three minutes we observed as cabs, SUVs and the offhand Chinese delivery man ran over my poor brown suede ballet flat. When it was all over, I slinked back into the street and retrieved the embattled Steve Madden. Back at my apartment, I gazed at the shoe while I peed, wondering how life would have been different if I’d just wet myself on the F train or had made the mistake of leaning down to pick up the shoe.
“It was instantaneous – she probably didn’t feel any pain,” the coroner would have told my parents. “Her blood alcohol level was .10, testing positive for embarrassing college-era drinks that no one should be consuming after the age of 22. Also, did she have any bladder control issues that you’re aware of?”
Life’s short, y’all. Pee often.