OK, picture this:
August 17th, 2017
You meet this cute boy at a softball game. Everyone (including you + Cute Boy [let’s call him ‘Bob’ for the sake of the story]) go to a bar afterwards to hang out. One thing leads to another, and you’re taking Cute Boy back to his place. You two have amazing, awesome sex [YOU COME T W I C E]. I mean, he picks you up and throws you on the bed for Christ’s sake.
Wait, sorry, I’ve lost my train of thought because I’m remembering that night….
Anyway, that’s where the story starts but has nothing to do with the ending. Bob + I hit it off, and the next day we make plans to go for a walk in the park [HIS IDEA] that weekend. Naturally, the night before this big date, I stumble off this curb and manage to tear TWO ligaments in my ankle. I crawl up to my third floor ‘walk up’ apartment, and make it to Urgent Care the next day. There, they give me the bad news and hand me a truly useless brace. Through the love and kindness of a dear friend, I manage to purchase some crutches from Walgreens. I text Bob “about that walk…”
He takes me to dinner instead. He’s neurotic about finding the closest possible parking to the door of the restaurant; insists on sitting next to me so I can put my foot up (smooth, right?). The date is an absolute hit. Bob drives me home and walks next to me as I crutch up to my front door.
I am a strong, independent woman who don’t need no man (or woman or non-binary individual) to help me. I am all those things. I am also...about to have to crawl up 3 flights of stairs in order to get to my apartment. Bob is NOT going to help and he sure as hell isn’t going to witness that. So I kiss him goodnight [because duh] and say VERBATIM “for pride purposes, I’m going to have to ask you to leave now so you don’t watch me drag my sweaty ass up these stairs” Bob respects it, and leaves.
Two months later on Halloween I’m peeing on his bedroom floor and crying myself to sleep in shame. How’s that for pride!
Wait, what? Back up.
Bob +I are crazy about each other. We have so much fun together & we fall in love quickly.
For Halloween we ‘hit the town’ (STL-style) and get wildly drunk together. I have way too much to drink [typical, honestly] and before I know what’s happening or how, I’m kinda sorta definitely peeing on Bob’s bedroom floor. I didn’t even really notice until he pointed it out, because it’s just kinda… dripping down my leg? Thankfully, it’s hardwood, not carpet. It’s in a pee pee-sized puddle just beneath my feet. I’m mortified? Horrified? Is there really a word to explain how to feel in that moment? Lucky for me, Bob isn’t just cute. He’s also incredibly sweet, and kind, and warm and loving and understanding and a lot of other adjectives that make it laughably easy to love him. To be loved well by him. So what does Bob do? He helps me clean up my own pee. Lots of paper towels and disinfectant spray for the pee [and the tears]. And then he holds me as I cry myself to sleep in shame, and he assures me over and over and over again that it’s ok, that he doesn’t think any differently of me, and that if it’ll make me feel better, he’ll gladly pee on my floor and I can help him clean it up.
And you know what? I wake up the next day and it really isn’t that bad. Because shit happens, and so does pee sometimes, apparently.
By Natasha C
Image by Laken Sylvander
(painting by Lucien Freud c/o Saint Louis Art Museum)
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