Pee Pants

When it comes to using public facilities, I am a hoverer. This wasn't always the case. As a child I used to sit on my hands to protect myself from the ills accumulating on public toilet seats.

I was not the smartest child.

Now I am well into adulthood. Now I go into public restrooms knowing my legs can support my hovering for three minutes before thinking about getting tired. So "recent events" cannot be blamed on a lack of maturity or not knowing any better. "Recent events" cannot be blamed on tired legs either.

I was having dinner with my wife. It was our first time frequenting this particular restaurant. With my belly full, I made my way to the unfamiliar bathroom. Someone was already facilitating; I waited. The door opened and a child accompanied a woman out of the stall. My decision to not sit on the toilet seat was unwaveringly grounded. 

Upon inspection, the toilet sat higher than I was accustomed to. Instead of hovering at a 90 degree angle, or less, I was faced with hovering at a 110 degree angle, if not more. I was unfazed by the height. I was, after all, a professional.

I checked, double checked, and checked again that everything was aligned and then granted the floodgates permission to open. Something was wrong. Really wrong. What was that? Something...warm. On my skin. I gasped as the warmth started making its way down my leg. My hand slapped my leg in an effort to make a dam. I immediately sat down on the toilet. Gross, but there were bigger fish frying.

The stream got away from me.

I made a quick inspection and gave immediate thanks that I hadn't pissed all over the top of my pants. But the left calf of my pants took a direct hit. The dark, round spot on my khakis was impossible to hide.

Oh how I panicked.

A sense of urgency washed over me like, well, an out of control pee stream. No one could know what I had done. I had to act fast, get out before I was discovered. A-ah! No hand dryer! I used paper towel after paper towel to try and blot my pants dry. Hurry! But the wet spot made a mockery of me and my wad of paper towels.

What could I do? I had an opera to get to. The Santa Fe Opera. So I quickly washed my hands, twice, and walked out like nothing happened.

As tuxedos and dresses and ties and heels walked by me at the opera--it's kind of a big deal--and as I sat next to a man in a white suit who smelled like the men's counter at Neiman Marcus, I found it amusing that all that fancy was unknowingly rubbing elbows with a woman who wore her very best, thankfully dry, pee pants.