Spoiler alert: Women who have not yet had children, you may not want to read this. Men you probably can’t handle the truth. Save yourselves. The rest of you know…YOU KNOW.
Today I had one small cup of caffeinated coffee. About thirty minutes later I was wishing someone could just hook me up to a catheter so I could get some work done at my desk. Seriously? How does one cup of coffee become six trips to the ladies’ room? I’ll tell you how, two children sitting on my bladder in-utero. Now, in truth, my bladder was never going to win a camel contest, even before the kids. I’m pretty sure I have one of the smallest bladders known to man…wo-man. And ironically, when I was pregnant, unlike other women, I actually had bladder control. It was awesome. Except that the reason for my stroke of bladder control was the fact that my sweet babies were sitting on my bladder, then later shoving it into my chest cavity. Now my bladder (and related plumbing) is all stretched, kinked, sensitive and unreliable.
You can always tell women who haven’t had children. They’re the ones that don’t cross their legs before they sneeze. Here I thought the stretchmarks and droopy, post-breast feeding boobs were a bummer. Please. That’s the least of my problems.
A few years ago my husband and I went on a trip with my best friend and her husband. We ate at Cracker Barrel. I ordered a Diet Coke, which the waitress refilled without prompting, numerous times. We were there an hour. I peed five times. TWICE in the 15 minute period just before we left the restaurant. We got in the car. Pulled out of the parking lot. Drove 50 feet to the light. I then texted my best friend, “I have to pee. Pull over at the next gas station, please. B, Angie’s bladder. Angie’s bladder, B. You’ve been formally introduced.”
Oh God, you think you’re so funny… Which means he/she has a sense of humor. Which means he/she exists. You follow?
And that’s just my bladder on caffeine. If I drink alcohol…multiply the problem by ten. It’s nearly physically impossible for me to become inebriated. To become inebriated, I have to drink faster than I undrink. It’s like running relays. Drinking exhausts me, and I’m pretty sure on those days/nights I do drink, I look like a drug pusher. Bar, bathroom, bar, bathroom, bar, bathroom. If I pass out, it’s likely from exhaustion. I’m convinced my bladder is the result of a genetic mutation designed to phase out alcoholism in my family tree. The whole situation discourages alcohol consumption, and even if that doesn’t work, my body is rejecting the hell out my poor judgement. That’s evolution baby.
Of course, REALLY effective evolution would result in my growing a new bladder here soon because this one I’ve got ain’t makin’ it to 200,000 miles. WHY do we have two kidneys and only one bladder? I’m buying stock in Depends now. Might as well earn money off myself.
So anyway, all of this over sharing just to explain that my bladder is the evidence we all needed to prove that God and evolution both exist. You’re welcome.