Potted Plants and Snowbanks
November 6, 2007
My husband has a bladder the size of a thumbtack. I would describe it was the size of a walnut, except that would be cliche...and terribly inaccurate. He would gladly trade up for a walnut-sized pee sack. I know he would.
Unless you or your spouse suffer from a mini-little-bladder, it's hard to understand how much this issue can affect your quality of life. On several occasions, I've watched Jared stop to pee on a rock/tree/dirt pile on his way to the toilet. Even if the bathroom's in plain sight, the man can't hold it for another nano-second--he MUST PEE ON THE HYDRANGEA PLANT NOW. Or behind the port-o-potty, because the simple illusion of a line can make this man let loose and wet his pants.
The first year we were married, we lived in a nasty old apartment near Bangor Maine. We had no washer/dryer hookups in our unit, and the laundry room could only be reached by walking outside, down the fire escape, and through a hatchway door to the basement.
One Saturday, in the middle of the winter, I ran outside to switch our laundry to the dryer. When I reached the hatchway door, I was completely repulsed because SOMEONE had been PEEING in the snowbank! Sure we lived in the nastiest apartment building in the heart of a college town, but somehow, I managed to believe that frat boys had at least a portion of a shred of dignity.
I switched the laundry, walked out of the hatchway, and disgustedly studied the pee patterns. That's when I noticed something interesting--the pee patterns were not simple dots or stripes, they were letters:
My husband had peed his initials into the snowbank. How very classy.
There's a good reason that this five-year-old story is on my mind today. You see, Jared has the fourth part of his board exams this weekend. If he passes this round, he earns himself the right to diagnose strange conditions, adjust people's bones, operate an x-ray machine with no supervision, and GET PAID TO DO IT!
If he passes this section, my husband will be Dr. Lawson.
This morning, as Jared was reading through his instruction packet for the exam, he let out a long, dramatic, worried sounding sigh. Assuming he was overwhelmed at the prospect of a three-day test, I put my hand on his shoulder and said, "Nervous?"
"Amy," he replied. "There's going to be a two and a half hour section with no pee breaks allowed. What am I gonna do?!"
As he walked toward the door, I could hear Jared using some positive self-talk. He was like, "Ok, I can do this. No water, no coke, no juice. I could pee in a Gatorade bottle, a potted plant, not a water fountain..."
Trust me people, you want this man to be your chiropractor.