“Push fluids. Drink water like it’s going out of style.” <= This is the advice my dear friend (who is a doctor) gave me to help clear up my sinus infection.
So, on my way to see the ENT, I stopped by CVS and got a 1.5 liter bottle of Ozarka water.
I got in my car, set the ginourmous bottle in my lap, unscrewed the cap…
And spilled a massive amount of water right between my legs. …while wearing shorts. …that were Khaki: The world’s only material that can hide no stain – not. even. water.
Well, that’s not what I meant to do, I thought. I faced two options:
- Go home and miss this appointment that took me six weeks to get into.
- Go to a medical complex I had never been to, up the elevator, into the office, through the waiting room – in front of a bunch of people who are going to think I peed my pants.
I chose #2. And desperately hoped I wouldn’t pass a soul. And that the lights would be dim.
I mean, I am six months pregnant – there isn’t a chance on earth they are going to think I ‘spilled’ my water.
‘Poor girl,’ they’ll think. ‘I bet that baby is right on her bladder. Must be going to see the urologist.’
I debated with myself with each person I passed, ‘Do I tell them it’s only water? What if they suffer from incontinence and really are going to see the urologist? Would I just offend them?’
I chose not to tell…Hesitantly. Very hesitantly. The words were just waiting inside my cheeks – wanting to burst forth from my pursed lips. But I held my tongue.
I shimmied passed 6 people in the lobby while trying to strategically hold my purse to cover the water.
Oh, and all the while I really did have to use the restroom like there was no tomorrow. Because remember? My doctor friend told me to drink water like it was going out of style? And I listened?
I made it into the elevator. Of course, there were three people in there. I smiled politely and quietly backed into the corner.
I stepped out of the elevator, walked down the long hall and finally made it to my destination.
I opened the heavy door to the cold, sterile, tile waiting room – that had really bright fluorescent lights. Twenty-one people crowded the twenty-eight seat room. (Yes, I counted. I was so flabbergasted by the ridiculousness of my situation that I knew if I didn’t keep careful record of each event, no one would believe my retelling.) With limited magazines, all 21 all were watching Toy Story on the flat-screen TV. The very TV I would now have to walk directly in front of in order to get to the reception desk.
And just wait, the worst part of the story is yet to come.
I slipped through the waiting area to the desk. I considered, again, making an announcement that I just spilled my water. But I had gained enough attention.
I filled out the paper work while trying to hold my bladder as best as I could. I longed to plea the receptionist to point me to the nearest bathroom. But that would only make me look worse.
I turned the papers in, and as nonchalantly as I could, asked where the restroom was.
Of course it was back by the elevators.
And so I went. Traipsing back across the waiting room – in front of the TV. Out the door. And started down the long, narrow, you-can’t-avoid-a-single-person hallway.
‘She looks familiar,’ I thought, as I passed a very put-together woman in business attire.
I smiled and nodded, but bee-lined down the long hallway for the bathroom.
As I exited the ladies’ room and turned into the hall, I noticed the well-dressed woman hadn’t moved from her position – which was about 3/4 the way between where I now stood and the ENT’s door I was to enter. I knew I’d have to pass her again. Only now, a man joined her – and an elderly couple.
I continued to walk.
As I got closer, I realized the man had a camera. The woman had a microphone. The couple was being interviewed.
The well-dressed woman I ‘just knew I recognized’ was a reporter – conducting a news interview.
At this point, there was nowhere I could go but forward. I was already in the camera shot , and if I turned around – back toward the bathroom – it would certainly only make me more obvious.
So there I walked, down the length of the long, four-foot-wide hall – all while in the camera shot…
…looking like I wet my pants.
I squeezed myself between the camera and the wall to pass by, shook my head in disbelief, and entered the waiting room – where I now sit, typing this incredible moment in time, with my laptop in my lap, desperately trying cover the water on my shorts.
I wish I had a more profound reason for sharing this, but I really don’t. Just hope it brightened your day. I mean, at least you weren’t on the news looking like you peed your pants.