Tale of Excretions

The tight denim thrusting itself near my urethra combined with my thong getting pulled further and further up made me feel like I was going to explode.

Clearly getting period blood on one is unavoidable, an act of God, one could say. Getting shit on your foot, while a slight mistake in judgment, still is forgivable. But this next story was completely avoidable. I have nothing and no one to blame but myself. My laziness. My trouble with boundaries. You will view me differently. You'll laugh. But underneath the laughter there will be concern, nervousness. You may doubt my truthfulness or my sanity. At least my honesty I can absolutely vouch for. What's worse, I think you will doubt my judgment for posting this. It has taken me a LONG time to tell this story. Just last week I opened up and told [bob]. The wound had been too raw. Prepare yourself. Ask yourself as the story goes along, "What would I do in this situation?"

It was right after Thanksgiving. Christmastime. The streets had a distinct holiday chill to them; they were crowded with store bags pushing into each other being carried by tired, overworked shoppers.

My close friend Chris decided he would get me a pair of Sevens for Xmas this year. I had never had a pair and just felt wrong about paying $130 for a pair of jeans, no matter how great, yet the bargain hunter in me was silenced by my vanity and covetness.

So it was decided and he told me to go to Barneys — ahhhh, Barneys – after work and pick out a pair and he'd reimburse me that night at a fancy lobster dinner.

I paid special attention to how I looked that morning while I dressed. I carefully put on a chic black wool turtleneck, paired it with a pair of demure and brand new black and white large checked pants and donned pointy toed boots. Atop I put on my black kneelength shearling, put my hair up in a sophisticated bun, smeared on the red lipstick and headed to work. As soon as 5 o'clock hit I literally ran to Barneys, the excitement was so great. I had never purchased anything from there.

I sauntered in and headed straight to the jeans floor. They call it the Denim Jeans Bar, and everyone looks so chic and made up listening to phat pumping bass you’d naturally expect to sidle up to the cashier and ask for a Barneytini on the rocks. Racks and racks of Sevens and Paper Denim in glorious piles lined the area. I wasn't sure my size in Sevens so I picked about 5 different styles (all the same pocket design) and took one of each size 28, 29 and 30. I had at least 15 pairs in the fitting room.

Being Christmastime the fitting room situation was chaotic. There are about 20 small rooms each about 3 feet by 3 feet. There is only a mirror and a concrete, uncarpeted floor. It was hot. I was tired, it being after a long day at work. Rushing out the office and into the hectic crowds was not the worst of my problem. The fatigue was bad, the heat in the fitting room was worse, but the worst was that I needed to pee! Still there was a long line of women out front waiting for a fitting room and I was not going to give mine up and start the maddening process of finding the right pair of jeans. There was no bathroom on the floor, the salespeople were crazed and unhelpful and took forever to bring additional sizes and I was going to be late for my big dinner with Chris.

Jeans, jeans, jeans. Women reading will know that this is just as bad as finding a bathing suit that fits. The length must be right, the rise and color must be right and with Sevens the stretch must be right. I swear I tried on 3 different styles of them all in size 29 and all fit completely differently. Even 29s in the SAME style fit differently.

I had asked the salesperson several times for different pairs and each time she took forever and finally thrust about 20 extra pairs on top of the door.

So there I was doing a new form of aerobics — jeanbo, if you want to call it that. Bend knees, pull up jeans, squat, suck in gut, turn, turn, look, turn – all to the blaring hip hop beat in Club Barneys. But with each pair I tried on the pressure in my bladder got worse and worse. The mere bending and stretching motions caused me to feel I’d pee myself any second. The tight denim thrusting itself near my urethra combined with my thong getting pulled further and further up made me feel like I was going to explode.

And here is where this story will begin to go down a very dark path.

There is no bathroom on the floor. I mentally take myself down the elevator after waiting for the packed boxed to finally come to my floor. I run around like crazy looking for the nearest restroom, which, in department stores is always hidden away down the farthest, longest corridor, hidden behind racks of missy petites or August Silk that no one wears.

Nope, I rationalize, this will not work. It would take too long and time was something I did not have at this point. I was breaking out into a sweat, secretly hoping I could sweat away my fluids so the pressure would lessen. The walls of my tiny fitting room felt like they were closing in and I was trapped with my mirror image. My own grimaced face stared back at me. I mentally chided myself for scrunching up my forehead in dismay, noting I was just a year or two away from needing Botox. I was in Barney’s after all, these things needed to be addressed.

I looked around. Survival instincts kicked in. I stared at my reflection; it stared back. I winked; I winked. I looked over shoulders and under the door – which, by the way, only came down to my knees. I peered over the door and just left of it I saw the line of frustrated and impatient women growing. I knew that there was no way I could run and find a salesperson to hold the fitting room and my horded jeans.

The music sounded like it was getting louder and faster, but it was just my heartbeat. Things crossed my mind, unspeakable things. Yet these are unspeakable things are now become writable things.

I looked around once again. To my left was a pile of jeans in the corner – the “no” pile. To my left was my big leather handbag, next to it on the floor was my still unopened water bottle of water. My big canvas and leather overnight bag crowded itself into the opposite left hand corner. There was barely enough floor space for my sweaty socked feet. I had to find a receptacle, FAST.

I eyed the water bottle. Looking nervously from it to my lower regions. I pulled off the thong underwear to reduce pressure. The bottle was full. I thought of drinking some so I could possibly pee in it, recap it and move onto more important chore at hand. I gingerly picked it up and moved it towards my waiting urethra. The opening was so small. It would be impossible to aim it in and the thought of drinking just a sip seemed incomprehensible. I put it back in the corner, frustrated.


“Oh my God, I have to pee NOW!” ran through my head over and over in desperation. I said a small prayer. Tried to will myself out of my 3 X 3 hell. In quick jagged movements I picked up my purse. It was big and sturdy. I could hold pee. But how much pee could I possibly have? I could dump out the wallet and scraps of paper and makeup and… Wait. This purse was fine Italian leather. It cost about $80 on sale. What was I thinking? How could I pee in my purse. I had dignity. I was sophisticated. I was in Barney’s! I was well-coifed and smelled of Chanel. I just couldn’t. I threw it back on the floor exasperated. I stared into the mirror at the grimace growing ever-wider.

I cursed nature, God, Barneys, All Mankind.

I was making little abbreviated gasps. Outside the clicking of shoes back and forth, back and forth outside my bathroom, I mean, fitting room. Naked from the waste down, pasty legs in black socks, hair rapidly wilting from chic to messy. I looked like a mental case, my red lipstick that of a diabolical clown. I went through my overnight bag. N o t h i n g that even resembled a cup.

I could feel the warm urine traveling from my kidneys down the bladder which jerked and sputtered like a car warming up. I only had seconds left.

I threw things out of my purse one by one and came across a small brown prescription bottle, labeled with my name from the local pharmacy. Celexa it read. 40 mgs. My antidepressants. Could this work? Was it possible? Beggars couldn’t be choosy. I rationalized that I wasn’t really going to do it. Of course not. I was simply going to pour the few remaining tablets into my purse and merely hold it up to my crotch and just look.

Hand in slow motion, still eyeing myself in the mirror, ashamed for the poor girl standing sheepishly in falling socks. And the minute it reached my opening the floodgates opened.

For a few brief moments all was right in the world. The relief was earth shattering. I smiled, feeling resourceful, successful. Yet, I was peeing in Barney’s in the fitting room with people just feet, inches, away. The feeling of pride in myself for being so quick thinking and so sneaky filled me, much as my urine filled the tiny bottle. And then it all too quickly reached the top. Almost suspended in time I reached for the next bottle. Where was the next bottle? Damn you, hand it to me! I screamed silently to the girl in the mirror. But sadly there was no next bottle. The urine overflowed onto me, onto my socks, onto the concrete floor, onto the Sevens. There was no stopping it. It was an impossible ride with no way off. The room spun, the urine splattered. The girl in the mirror was in denial, in shock.

Once the tidal wave ceased I stood mortified. The impact of the situation reaching me with its cold clammy hands.

I had just peed in Barney’s. Worse than peeing in was peeing on. I just peed on.

There I stood, urine-filled prescription bottle in right hand, standing cartoonishly on left foot, all the while trying to reach down for the bottle top that I had thrown somewhere under piles of jeans. Finally finding it I placed it back on and wondered if childproof caps were also leakproof. I wasn’t taking my chances. I had taken way too many chances. I placed it neatly back in the corner.

Now for damage control. Hopping, I pulled off my socks and began to mop the saturated floor. I used my panties too. Thongs and socks do not absorb enough. I used my black and white wool pants. Wool doesn’t absorb liquid well. I swished them around like a stream of consciousness. I pulled on sweats I had in there for the next day and returned my boots on sans socks.

The Sevens, poor pathetic pants, lay in the corner, at least 23 pant hems soaked.

I must act quickly. How soon does urine start to smell? I wasn’t going to stick around to find out. I sniffed in and out but all I could smell was the starchy new clothing smell prevalent in retail shops. My still-wet feet squished in my boots. I rationalized that surely it was just the sweat.

I suddenly knew how it felt to commit an unfathomable crime and need to cover it up. This was not premeditated, I rationalized further. I never planned on peeing in Barney’s this way. Surely no civilized person would ever willfully do such a thing. It was all a mistake. It got away from me. It didn’t really happen. Surely the liquid was just water. Yes, that was it. My water spilled from my uncapped water bottle. By mistake. I then purposely spilled a bit and left the bottle on its side.

I was formulating a plan. I would stage it to look like nothing more than a spilled bottle of Poland Spring. I peered over and under the door. I saw my chance and made a break for it leaving wet bootprints in a trail to the cashier. I stood on a lengthy line nearly hyperventilating. I stood stone-faced as the cashier rung me up. I knew giving my credit card was an unfortunate mistake as now they’d have my identity in their hands. But alas, I did not have $260 plus tax in cash. I signed convincing myself I was forging my own signature.. As the cashier took the slip from my hands I quietly and almost conspiratorially told her I was sorry but that I spilled a half a bottle of water in the fitting room and that she should have someone mop it up so the clothes don’t get wet and so that nobody would slip. And then I took off.

Once outside I felt victorious. Instead of being ashamed I felt great. I felt like I got away with the crime of the century. I was free. I was actually chuckling to myself. I still had to throw out the socks, the thong and most of all, the prescription bottle that was tucked still in my right hand hidden in my pocket. I snickered at the thought of my little secret. “Hey you! Pretty lady. I bet you can’t guess what I have in my pocket,” I taunted in my head.

I got to a public trashcan and opened the plastic bag tightly tucked into my overnight bag and opened it. I threw the black socks in looking left and right to see if anyone had seen. The thong disposal would be harder but at this point I was up for any challenge. Lastly I tossed in the bottle as if a coin in a fountain and made a wish.

It’s taken me a long time to confess this story and now I feel purged. This written excretion has made me feel relieved. After telling [bob] this story I started from the top and re-enacted it without words using only motions and mime. She thought it was so funny she couldn’t talk or breathe. She declared she was sure this would be my ticket to fame – a one-woman show. A golden mine that will surely get me showered with accolades.

Comments

lifeisntjuicy says,

hilarious!

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