urine trouble

I sass a lot. At least I try. I sass when I walk, I sass when I blog, I sass when I’m three Pinots deep and I’m asking random DC tourists if the man on my arm looks like he really measures 6’2”.

And so it was on Tuesday afternoon, when at noon I sashayed my way down a work lobby hallway, sassing to and fro in a pair of wide-legged black pants that I was sure encapsulated my life as the poor man’s Carrie Bradshaw. But on one step down my self-assured runway, the heel of my right shoe caught in my left pant cuff. And I spiraled, and I slid, and I skated along the shiny tile, eventually and most thankfully catching myself. Others watched in horror.

But none was as horrified as I. Because as I turned and I twirled and I twisted, not all remained intact. For in the split second before I recovered, time stood still and a portion of my life flashed before me (the young part), and truth be told to God and Oprah: I tinkled.

It wasn't a lot, like when you actually stick to Weight Watchers and drink 248 ounces of water each hour. And it wasn't really even a little, like a five year old who shivers poolside like a deer in headlights. I was able to recover and hold my head high and say with varying degrees of certainty that I had not wet myself. But it was enough for me to know it had happened.

And it was enough for me to spend the remainder of the day wondering, sans even a remote element of sass, just how far in my future blue plate specials, sitz baths, and the pursuit of hairy youth cocoons really are .