December 6: Bladder Dictatorship

It has a mind of its own and I am at its complete mercy. Just when I think I'm in control, it proves me wrong. It reminds me who's boss at the most inopportune times and it doesn't let go until I give in. Whether I'm browsing the Staff Selections at Barnes and Noble or alphabetizing CDs, my urinary bladder makes its presence known.

For whatever reason, my bladder has always known exactly when I decide to participate in select activities. I don't know if it's the different forms of media or the slow pace in which I move around them, but walking slowly through aisles of tall bookcases at libraries and bookstores always makes me have to go. As soon as I walk across the threshold of the entrance and take in the silence, my bladder will inevitably start to convulse and will perform somersaults upon my pelvic floor.

Whenever I would come home with a new CD when I was younger, I would spend a good ten minutes placing it in its proper slot. To do this, I had to find the slot, remove its current occupant, place the new CD in its place, and repeat the process for every following CD until I reached the end of the collection. I could have used the restroom at the music store before I left. I could have used the restroom in my home before alphabetizing my new purchase. No matter how many times I went throughout the day, by the time I finished the categorization, I was dancing back and forth trying to hold it all in.

A smart person would give in and find the nearest restroom to alleviate the discomfort. I am not that person. Pride might be the wrong word, but I'm much too proud to give in to an organ. I don't care how uncomfortable it becomes; I hate interrupting my activities for something as insignificant as urination. My mom is always quick to remind me how unhealthy it is to hold it in, but I want my bladder to know that I am its master. It doesn't tell me what to do! My digestive system has my back on this one.

My closest friends and family members (and now you, Loyal Reader) know that I have an unusual phobia of sharing a toilet seat with anyone other than my immediate family members. This fear made its first appearance at Sixth Grade Camp. There was no way on God's green earth that I was going to sit on the same seat as a cabin full of twelve-year-old boys spending their first week away from home. I can't remember if I went on Monday morning before I left home, but I do know that Friday's return to my porcelain friend was not the most pleasant visit.

I'm sure my digestive system has spoken with my bladder, but it doesn't stop my bladder from trying to trick me. Every morning I wake up, I relieve myself before showering and making breakfast. When I return to the restroom to brush my teeth before heading off to work, my bladder knocks on my abdominal cavity's door. "I'm full!" it says. Every morning I fall victim to its pranks because every morning I unzip to release just two or three drops of urine.

It really does have a mind of its own and I am helpless against it. It sleeps quietly and just when I've forgotten about it, the internal organ will interrupt me and force me to relieve it. I don't have a problem with my prostate just yet, but when I do, I'm not looking forward to the taunts I'm sure to receive from my own urinary bladder.