Wednesday, 19 March 2014

Who needs a pelvic floor anyway?

I was in town the other day to get my hair done. I go to the same hairdresser I’ve gone to for the past 20 years [I’m one of those brand loyal people] and it used to be really convenient because I worked in the CBD so I could just leave my car parked and head on down. Usually on a Friday night followed by Friday night drinks with gorgeous hair. Y’know, back in the day where I didn’t have to be anywhere else other than where I wanted to be. I used to book my hair appointments on Friday nights so that I looked gorgeous and used my time in the chair to text my friends to see where we would meet up and I would touch up my makeup in the mirror and start with a cheeky glass of wine while I was there. But not these days.

So I went to the city to get my roots done and got in a bit earlier to fit in some clothes shopping for my kids who actually don’t have anything to wear 'out'. And when I say 'they don’t have anything to wear' I mean it. Every pair of pants they own are about 7 centimetres too short and the pants of the eldest that are now long enough for the youngest no longer have knees so when they tried on their outfits for their Aunty’s 21st I had what looked like two orphans standing before me.

I had 30 minutes to find something for them before my root job. I always wee before I go anywhere and today was no exception but I usually have to wee whenever I’m out too. Strangely, this occurred even before children. Which is why I know where all the good public toilets are in town. So I’m in Target with a pile of options for the brats and I’m feeling the pressure rising so head to the Target toilet [which is a good one] and it’s out of order. I start to sweat a little but I’m feeling pretty secure because the pressure isn’t too intense yet. So I wait in line and I buy the boys clothes and get my carpark ticket stamped for my discount and head into the mall because I have another errand to run in the 30 minute window I have. I think to myself as I’m focussing on keeping the wee tsunami at bay that I’ll just head straight to the loo at DJs [AWESOME public toilet] and all will be good.

I’m feeling confident, perhaps even cocky. Because you see, I NEVER did those pelvic floor exercises that I was constantly and sensibly encouraged to do. Nope. Not me. Do you know why?  Because when I tried they felt far too similar to having an orgasm. Of course I’m quite partial to orgasms so that in itself wasn’t a problem but I almost always remembered to do them when I was in company or public. Standing in line somewhere. Sitting in a waiting room. Talking to my brother. You get the picture. And I got stage fright. All that squeezing together. It just made me think of my vagina so much and all while I was trying to maintain eye contact or keep a straight face and not think about having an orgasm. [you're doing it right now aren't you?] And the result, after pushing two babies out and not doing my pelvic floor exercises is I no longer have one. Which is a problem when your bladder is full and you’re in public and you have to cough.

Now usually, I can head off a cough with a firm clear of the throat but not this time. No. Not this time. This time, in heavy Saturday morning mall foot traffic, a bit of spit went down the wrong hole. You know what I’m talking about right? And I am WRACKED with coughing. So now I’m coughing, sweating and LEAKING as I start to do that little ‘almost run’ while keeping my legs together that’s a cross between a skip and a shuffle and a convulsion. And I develop a severe case of Tourettes syndrome as I swear, profusely, at myself under my breath. “You couldn’t do the fucking exercises could you?? Who fucking cares if it feels like an orgasm?? You’re PISSING YOURSELF in Rundle Mall. Still feeling cocky???”

Thankfully, it turned out NOT to be the disaster it could have been because sadly, these days my knickers are big and my jeans are baggy so any leakage was disguised. Sitting on that toilet was quite the experience though. Part relief, part reverence. Tourettes was replaced with a sudden urge to say 12 Hail Marys. There may have even been a choir singing. It was seriously THAT GOOD.

I swore [differently this time] to never let that happen again. I wouldn’t again risk the chance of pissing my pants in public because I couldn’t make it to a toilet in time. I promised to myself that I wouldn’t be in that horribly vulnerable position again.

Next time, the boys can go out looking like orphans.

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