To pee? Not to pee?

My friend, Nessa, posted a hilarious blog about something that happened to her and invited her readers to share their own embarrassing moments.

Since I never know when to shut up, I rambled on for about a page.

Very few people have ever heard this story. It was not something I really cared to publicize, but now enough time has passed that it doesn't really matter anymore.

So, here you go:
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I’ll never forget a particular freelance job I did few years ago for a company out of New York. It was a product launch for Seasonale (Only FOUR Periods a Year! … may cause breakthrough bleeding and spotting).

A few days before the event, I had transitioned from one kind of crazy pill to another and I was still settling in with the new medication. I was a little spacey as my brain juice tried to figure out how to block the betas, soak up the seratonin or whatever it was doing inside my skull.

These meetings usually mean working 12-15 hours a day for four or five days. When we broke for lunch on the second or third day, I was already starting to show some wear. I was worn out. I ate the chow and then took a potty break.

The event was being held in a ballroom in one of the big downtown hotels. The boys’ room was out the ballroom, past the elevators and way across the lobby. I found a nice urinal, deployed, did my business, put everything back in place, washed my hands and headed back to the ballroom.

I looked so nice and so professional walking back through the lobby. All buttoned down and stylin’ with a silk tie – might even have been Italian – and nice, light khakis. I got back and sat down by the New York producer as she conferred with the Director of Production.

Then I looked down at my lap and my pants were soaked. Showed up really good on khaki.

Oh, my God!

What had the new medicine done to me? Did I black out? Did I lose all bladder control? Did I mistakenly zip and flush not realizing I was still mid-stream? Was I that crazy? What should I do?

I hid. I whipped out my cell phone and called a friend of mine.

“I’m on a job! I’ve got new crazy pills! I think I just wet my pants!” Laughter. It’s remarkable how little sympathy incontinence engenders.

Well, I called the producer and asked if she could spare me for 45 minutes and dashed home. I’d already bribed the parking-lot attendant so I could come and go without paying a full day’s rate every time I parked.

I rushed in the house and ripped the soiled pants off and hopped in the shower so I wouldn’t smell like an old man or a homeless person. I put on fresh pants and rushed back downtown to the hotel and apologized to the producer for my untimely absence.

Eventually, I had to make another trip to the accursed men’s room, and as I walked toward the urinal which had so betrayed me earlier, I noticed that the sink was leaking all over the countertop and dripping water down the front of the cabinet right where I had leaned when I washed my hands earlier.

Well, I was humiliated, but the show went on. And I’m sure I made an impression on the people from New York.