Driving South

October 29th, 2006

My husband has learned to move on from a lot of the issues inherent in living with me. For example, he has accepted the fact that I fall – a lot. When we first started dating, he was quite romantic about it. I’d take a tumble, and he’d turn around to chase after me gallantly, calling, “Honey! Oh my God! Are you okay?” And of course, he’d pluck me up off the ground gently and rub my head, and hold my hand the rest of the journey to wherever it was we were going, peppering me with kind questions about my well-being, and whether or not I’d bruise later.

Not so much anymore. Now we’ll be walking together and I’ll disappear from his side completely – likely kissing the ground and/or plucking my heel from a grate that popped up out of nowhere – and he’ll turn only to say, very calmly, “Oh no. Please get up.” And then he’ll sigh very heavily, having barely broken his stride. And of course, I’m tottering quickly behind him, having extricated myself from wherever I happened to be stuck, dragging my handbag, and trying to straighten my clothes which have, on occasion, slipped off as I’ve desperately tried to right myself with my flailing arms.

I don’t mind his indifference and in fact, completely understand it – I mean, I walk into things almost hourly, and fall at least twice every day, although I rarely hurt myself, save for that one time in the stingray pool, and also that day that I was about to tumble directly into an open pit, which required Adam to grab my arm so hard to prevent me from falling that he left a hand-shaped bruise on my upper arm, and wasn’t THAT fun to explain at the event we had to attend where I wore a strapless dress two days later? There was a lot of, “Oh! Ha! It’s such a funny story, I almost fell into an open pit!” followed by several disapproving looks, which were ridiculous, as Adam is the gentlest person in the history of people, whereas I am the clumsiest.

Anyway, he’s been able to move beyond my clumsiness, along with about a frillion other shortcomings that hold the potential to embarrass, humiliate and otherwise denigrate him on a daily basis, just by the virtue of being married to me. But God, even with that hurdle crossed, we have not moved beyond the issue of my bladder. I have to pee a lot, and by “a lot,” I mean “every five minutes.” I’ve been to doctors, tried modifying my liquid intake, blah blah bladder blah, and I’m fine, but this just kills him – KILLS HIM – like my ailing bladder personally has it out for him, and is plotting all kinds of bladdery revenges for unknown transgressions.

This is particularly true on car rides, as illustrated by the drive away this weekend, where I had to pee no fewer than 11 minutes after I had last peed at a restaurant for reasons that are still completely unclear to both of us. Well, other than the fact that for the last week or so it’s been dry here, which has left me with an insatiable thirst that rivals that of a humpless camel stranded in the Mojave.

Incidentally, this overwhelming need to pee happened on one of those stretches of road where there isn’t anywhere to pee except for either the side of the road and/or one of those gas stations that offers little in the way of services except for a deep fryer, three overweight corrupt cops drinking coffee at a ratty formica bar, and maybe a clerk whose only known words are, “You sure do got a purty mouth!”

Which reminds me: do you know that once, while I was stuck in traffic on Route 128 outside of Boston, I actually saw a man pulled over on the side of the road POOPING next to his vehicle? And that he was actually squatting with his pants around his ankles reading the business section of the Boston Globe?

Anyway, to avoid a streetside peeing scenario, there was a lot of metaphorical pissing back and forth going on in the car about my bladder issue, which led me to defend myself with the only defense I could conjure, which was: “IT IS NOT MY FAULT. I AM NOT DOING IT ON PURPOSE.”

“Whose fault IS IT THEN? It’s YOUR BLADDER.” he hissed back.

And really, I don’t have an acceptable answer, other than I don’t think I should be held responsible for the actions of body parts that clearly refuse to heed my specific instructions (“Hold it for at least an hour. Love, Jonniker”).

And this is the longest-winded way ever of saying that the bladder issue was the worst thing that happened all weekend, which is to say that the weekend was pretty perfect. There was much lounging about in fluffy white robes, and I spent more time than should be legal in a bathtub which was actually located in front of a television, where I watched ungodly amounts of the Discovery Channel, TLC and other decadent pastimes, and read two of the lamest books ever (Jennifer Weiner and Patricia Cornwell. Shut up.)

Happy Monday to you.

*The Stone Roses

Entry Filed under: Nuttin'