I had an experience today that made me wonder a little bit about the whole overactive bladder thing. You see I had what could only be described as a fierce case of conference bladder. Let me preface by saying that after one small, flimsy styrofoam cup of the lukewarm, brown water being served I passed on drinking anything. I found myself desperately needing to go to the bathroom every single time the door to outside was closed. It was reminiscent of the last month of my second pregnancy when I had such a round the clock dire urge to pee (and give birth) that I feared doing anything other than crossing my legs as I sat absolutely still would result in a big wet mess.

Today’s schedule wasn’t all that bad and I was able to go (read: sprint) to the bathroom about every 45 minutes. Unfortunately, in the time that I had to wait I found myself afflicted with another condition that seems linked to quiet public settings: howling opera belly. I mean my god. I was appalled. Mortified and utterly appalled. I’m sitting there, next to a guy who says things like “It’ll be resort casual.” What the holy hell is resort causal? I have clean, dirty, and can’t quite tell so I’ll wear it on an early run to the grocery store. So I was sitting there in my chair (in only-dirty-in-a-certain-light business casual slacks and blouse) when I heard a noise that I did not immediately discern as coming from my person.

“Hmm, sounds like somebody should have snagged one of those gnarly stale muffins,” I thought to myself. More distant rumbling sounded and it started to sound like a sort of reedy warble. “Good grief, that is ridiculous. Eat a donut, will ya? I wonder…oh shit. On no, please stop, maybe if I cross my arms and twist in my seat it will…shit?” Realizing that this potent wail was coming from my stomach, my perfectly well fed stomach which had a Harvest Bar, a handful of Peanut Butter Panda Puffs, a cup of coffee and a glass of milk, I panicked. Funny thing about public setting banshee stomach, the more you panic, the louder it becomes. And the more people around you turn away to ease the embarrassment, the more it resonates like a poorly rehearsed chamber choir. I wanted to disappear. My stomach wanted to be a star. It was hell on earth. I am not kidding when I say that I was so beside myself with the urgent need to pee and the inability to quell the caterwauling of my belly I honestly thought that I might open my mouth to ask a question only to have a thunderous belch come out, or that as I was released to dash to the ladies room I would suddenly find myself suffering from Fox TV type flatulence that would have me running home to die a hot cheeked death of humiliation. Before total decimation of self-esteem by public flatulence, my stomach eventually shut the hell up and “resort casual” man took center stage.
I owe someone somewhere something, perhaps a sacrificial rotisserie chicken.