Freshman Wets Pants

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Growing up, I had a little pants-wetting problem. This is acceptable when you’re five, or maybe ten, but my body refused to cooperate for quite awhile after that. It was not indiscriminate incontinence. I only lost control for a few seconds and only when I was giggling. The problem was, that being your average girl, I was giggling all the time.

I knew I wasn’t alone. Phyllis, my girlfriend, was always in that telltale position – slightly hunched over, one leg desperately wrapped around the other in hopes of divine intervention. My mother once remarked that she had never seen Phyllis leave our house wearing the same clothes she had arrived in. My father was perplexed by the whole thing.

As a junior high cheerleader, I remember springing out to center court during a basketball game, all 8 of us in the spirited, red uniforms our mothers had sewn for us – whether they knew how to sew or not. I was excited and giggling and next thing I knew, I was wetting my pants. Not a lot. And, fortunately, not enough to endanger any of the players or leave me with permanent emotional scars. 

But then there was the freshman incident. My friend, Heidi, and I were working in the biology lab after school. I think we were burning peanuts to see how many calories they had. (As if we cared.) At one point, I went to sit on the swiveling lab stool and ended up flailing around on the floor instead. Heidi and I were hysterical and I was peeing.

It wouldn’t be high school if an embarrassing situation didn’t turn into a mortifying one. So, as I was piddling in my sassy little plaid skirt, one of our classmates – of the male persuasion – walked in. His jaw fell as he stared at the compromised co-ed and her maniacal sidekick.  I did my best to divert his attention, but it was hopeless. All I could come up with was, “haven’t you ever seen any one wet their pants?” I pulled myself together and we slipped away with hopes that he wasn’t the blackmailing type.

I outgrew the inconvenient trait and went on to have an outrageously fun four years at Glenbard North. And now, I take comfort in the fact that, if the subject comes up, a lot of women have their own pants peeing tales to tell. Maybe not as many as I do, but they’re out there. Am I right?


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