I Am the Fred Astaire of the Potty Dance
I’ve always had a talent for holding in my pee with grace.
I’m sure it started when I was fairly young, but I can’t be entirely sure because I was an infant and infants have terrible memories. If the beauty of my movement today is any indication of where I’ve come from, I’m confident I came out kick, ball changing.
I can’t recall the actual moment in time where I decided that I wanted to have a talent I didn’t see anyone else my age developing.
All of the other kids on the playground looked so desperate and gyrated their bodies like one of their hands was stuck in a peanut butter jar and the only way to free it was with the pathetic strength of their tiny, third grade thighs. Peanut butter is delicious though so I totally get it that someone would be pissed and hopeless that they had a handful that they couldn’t get up to their mouths. This fact alone is why I mastered the “hands-free potty dance” first. I never wanted anyone to feel bad for me and my peanut butter addiction.
I do remember a time I realized that the potty dance fail was a means for manipulation and revenge. Oh, ho, ho, do I ever.
In elementary school, there was this 18-wheeler truck that they’d park on the foursquare courts (don’t even get me started on how that ticked me off and ruined my recess experience for the 3-4 school days it was visiting…) that had a door and was dimly lit on the inside. This was a place that was supposed to encourage creativity and imagination in the youth of Arizona. All it really did was make school children miserable and scared and forced our parents to volunteer to run the activity stations inside. This particular year, my mom ponied up to run one of the stations. I was in second grade. I’d ask the parent at my station if I could go to the bathroom and she either ignored me or said no. It gets a bit fuzzy because I ended up making such an amazing discovery that logistics are moot. The group I was cycling through stations with moved to another which was firmly tucked in a far corner of the truck.
This was my moment.
I stopped wiggling, sat quietly in the corner, and just did it. I peed my pants. I was so relieved, so vindicated, so…powerful.
I smugly walked up to the volunteer at the new table and proudly stated that I’d just peed my pants, right there in that corner, because that mom over there told me I wasn’t allowed to go to the bathroom to do it. Getting what I wanted and tattling at the same time? A seven-year-old’s dream come true.
I quickly realized that peeing my pants to get what I want was something that would be short-lived. Society doesn’t think it’s so cool to be a stubborn second grader when you’re a grown woman. Or whatever. Something about that one time though, made it my lifelong goal to disregard my body’s signals to release the pees and instead master the art of the potty dance.
It was a tireless process, really. Hours and hours of not succumbing to that human need to pee. They say you have to suffer for your art and if this is what they mean, then by George this is what I was called to do. There were moments of pure focus and determination where I’d almost blackout. When I shook myself out of a foggy daze, I’d be stronger than I was before. This was dedication. This was my destiny. This was certifiably insane.
Now I can hold my pee for hours.
We’ll be going on a ten hour road trip through the middle of nowhere where my only options are an open field or a truck stop with who knows what on the seats and a self-appointed attendant who would “just love to help you wipe”? I haven’t practiced my Fosse in a few weeks, I’ll just work on that while I do my sudoku puzzles and get carsick.
Oh, you say I own a toilet in the comfortable home I live in and should just use that? I’d rather become this year’s reigning champion of So You Think You Can Dance Away Your Bladder’s Needs? aka America’s sweetheart who can krump and pirouette and still not pee her pants, in your face, suckas.
Tell me how you use your potty dance below.