Even though I’m a human and have become familiar with many of my body parts, I’m still blissfully unaware of many of my internal organs. For example, I have no idea how big my pancreas is, but I picture it about the size of a kumquat. So, sit back, relax, and be entertained as I explain how I stretched my bladder to the size of a small, third-world country.
At the incredibly awkward age of 15, my parents pulled me out of a country-club-ish, private school, and decided to send me to jail. Ok, it wasn’t really jail, but it looked like a jail. It was like Martha Stewart living in her mansion on her compound, then - without warning or preparation - getting *thrown* into prison. Perhaps I would have to brush up on some of my survival skills…
As I was getting dressed for my first day of prison, I mean…high school, and my mom walks in my room and announces: “WHATEVER YOU DO, DON”T GO INTO THE SCHOOL BATHROOM.”
Me: What are you talking about?
Mom: They perform abortions in the bathrooms.
Me: But, what if I have to pee?
Mom: Just hold it until you get home.
Now, many of you are probably wondering why I would believe that abortions were being performed in the bathrooms of our local high school. This is, in fact, the very beginning of my realization that my mom makes up crazy shit sometimes.
The first day of school was difficult because by fifth period, I needed to pee…. I slowly walked by the restroom, longing to go inside. But, I heard the ominous voice in my head.. the voice of my mother… “WHATEVER YOU DO, DON’T GO INTO THE SCHOOL BATHROOM….DON”T GO INTO THE SCHOOL BATHROOM…… the bathroom…....the bathroom.....”
The bus ride home was particularly painful, - every pebble in the road was cause for potential urine leakage. I ran from my bus-stop to my house, and started unbuckling my belt and pulling down my zipper on my jeans as I sprinted up the driveway. I burst in the house like a wild animal and barely made it to toilet – not even closing the door behind me. The same scenario was repeated day after day after day.
I ACHED to urinate like normal kids, but my fear of the bathroom... and the sound of my mother’s voice repeating her warning, made it virtually impossible.
I kept picturing some old, wretched doctor name Igor…with big metal instruments…laughing menacingly in a dirty, dark, dank bathroom.
My powers of observation were strong - I noticed people at school going in and out of the bathroom, and it didn’t appear any of them were having abortions. Or performing abortions. Confusing, indeed.
I learned to adapt for survival. My bladder morphed to accommodate my new urination routine, and I’m certain it grew five sizes bigger. By the middle of 10th grade, my bladder was the size of a large cantaloupe.
Then, the day came. The dreaded day. I HAD to go. There was nothing I could do. I said a quick prayer, closed my eyes, and bravely entered where no man had gone before (except the Janitor.)
I opened my eyes, and to my amazement, there were NO abortions being performed. Other than perhaps some grammatically incorrect graffiti, the entire bathroom event was, in fact, UNEVENTFUL.
A thousand curses to my mother! When I arrived home that day, I confronted her with my overgrown bladder and demanded to know from whence she received her abortion information. She stared at me blankly, and there was a long pause, and then she said, “I have NO idea what you’re talking about.”
