The Time I Peed My Pants
So this is from a series of short stories and essays I’ve been working on. I thought it was pretty funny and wanted to share, plus it has been an embarrassingly long time since I last posted. So here you go. Enjoy!
We’ve all done it. The dreaded peeing in the pants and being that little bit too old to really get away with it. I would like to preface this story by saying I have never peed my pants or wet the bed as an adult, not even drunk. Points for me *Sometimes* I get a little too excited, jump up and down or have been hit SO HARD playing derby that a little pee has been known to escape, but never a full blown accident.
My story goes like this, the school bus had just dropped me off. I remember squirming around in my seat on the bus in my new teal jeans already feeling like my pee dam was overflowing – why did I not go at school? I was probably going to miss the bus and had to just book it. I had carefully formulated my plan on the bus to bolt home, without being too obvious, and peeing my precious 12-year-old heart out . . . it was going to be awesome. Part of the issue was that the bus stop was just over a quarter mile from my house so it was going to be a trek and I was not into moving too fast at that age.
I stepped off the bus, said my goodbyes and subtly worked my fast paced walk into a run. I was gonna make it, not a doubt in my mind. I tightened the straps of my loosely hanging backpack to help with the awkward jostling of my stride. I passed my street sign and turned right . . . past the creepy house with the DJ van for the guy that worked at the skating rink . . . past the creek entrance . . . this was going to happen. Almost there. Twelve-year-olds don’t pee their pants, right? I thought to myself.
I saw the top of the tree that was in my front yard and started pulling my keys out of my bag. Still running . . . I ran past my adult neighbor who tried to say hi to me but was probably so dumbfounded at the sight of me running she did not try again. I ran across my lawn and up the porch steps, slammed the key into the deadbolt and swung open the door gasping for breath. At this point I should note I was whisper chanting “I’m gonna make it! I’m gonna make it!” over and over. I slammed the door behind me and bee-lined for the bathroom.
I dropped my backpack in the middle of the hall and jumped into the bathroom. I unbuttoned my jeans, just mere seconds from pee-dom bliss and I started to pull on the zipper. SHIT! The zipper stuck. I started to sweat pulling and yanking at the little metal zipper pull-tab in a furry. Stuck.
And there it happened. I started to pee standing right next to the toilet. At first I tried to fight it, but it was too late. I let go. I started laughing as I felt the warm pee run down my legs. It was funny, plus no one was home to catch me.
After about what felt like five minutes of straight peeing I got a towel and cleaned the floor and patted my self down. I remember I looked down at the zipper of my new pants and tried one last time to get it down and it went down with no issue. Seriously? WTF?! I don’t think I ever wore those pants again. They were my shame-pants, the evidence of my accident. Plus, I sorta felt like they could not be trusted after that.