even imagine being pregnant.
I went to my first Pearl Jam concert on Monday and throughout the night, I was
thinking about the story I would write…
Would it be about my lack of preparation this time? I didn’t
study any of the PJ discologies so the only song I could remember the lyrics to was “Can’t Find a Better Man.”
How apropos? Or, would it be Kevin singing “Jeremy” to me? He won second place in a karaoke contest singing it.
He sounded pretty good... Might it be the energy and pot smoke in the crowd? Or could it be about the full beer that was spilled
on my flip flops that I had to rinse off with a full bottle of water? No. No. No. And, no.
Don’t get me
wrong, it was a great show and the friends I went with were tons of fun.
I was the designated
driver. My plan was to drink early; we tailgated before the show so I went in with an appropriate buzz. I had a beer or two
more, enjoyed the show a bit then switched to water. I went through two big bottles…
We knew they would
be ending around 11pm. The man who gave us the tickets had gone two nights earlier and told us how the encore would go; the
band would leave the stage, rest for five minutes, come out and sing 5, leave for a few minutes more then come back and finish
with the last two. I knew when they were playing their final song, as did 85% of the audience. My better judgment urged me
to start heading for the exit. (I had to use the restroom but I didn’t want to miss any of the encores so, I chose to
To make a long story short and cut to the chase, it took us about 20 minutes to
get to my car and another 20 minutes to get to the highway. At that point, I knew I should have considered the porta-potty.
Now, I’ve been described as germ-conscience and fastidious. The porta-john just isn’t
my thing. As we drove home, it became alarmingly evident that I should have used a bathroom, any bathroom. It began with the
unbuckling of the seatbelt then, the unzipping of the pants until it finally came to the doubling over with terrible discomfort.
My friend in the passenger seat asked, “dude, are you okay?” (She’s female and calls everyone “dude.”)
I replied, “No.”
I was desperately searching for a place to pull over. I have never peed on the
side of the road in my life nor considered it until this night. I couldn’t find a safe place to stop so I continued
at 90mph to Boston.
As we approached
Southie, where I was dropping the girls off, they began to argue over who’s apartment was closer for me to use the facilities.
I couldn’t take it anymore; I pulled over as soon as we got off the exit. Both girls were yelling, “No, not here!
It’s the state trooper parking lot!” I pulled a quick u-turn and one of the girls yelled, “The beach is
right around the corner! Go there!” I took the next right. She was wrong. It was a continuation of the police grounds.
I didn’t care.
I pulled over and assessed the situation. I saw the pedestrians walking by, the
car pulling in at the gate, the cruiser parked by the fence, the two women in my car with the horrified looks on their faces
and the lonely tree with the spotlight on it. I took it all in, ran over to the lonely tree and dropped trou right there.
My white fanny peered out at the passerbys from behind the tree and I finally felt relief.
All this from a woman
who, when last faced with the need to use Mother Nature as a personal wash room, had to hike a mile away from the camper’s
outdoor facilities because there were spiders in the outhouse. (I wanted no part in that. Could you imagine if I was bitten
on the backside and they left eggs under my skin? I’ve heard of that happening before. We all have.) Not only did I
hike a mile, but I also had to strip down to nothing, fold my clothes 10 feet from the tree/potty, so as not to get a drop
of pee on anything I was wearing, and then go. Seriously. I know… I have issues.
So, can I just tell
you? As I walked back to my car in relief, the only thing I could think to myself was, “Please, God, let that still
be water in my flip-flops from the beer accident.”