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Nina Sharma Longre June 2, 9 minutes 2, words. The first night of our vacation, I wake up in the middle of the night needing to pee. I have a love-hate relationship with my bladder. I hate how much I have to pee; it feels as if upon the hour sometimes. Lately, even if I wake up feeling like a dangerously over-filled waterbed has sprouted up inside of me, I can avoid the half-awake march to the bathroom and fall back to sleep. As I contemplate listening to my bladder this time or not, I hear commotion in the hallway.
A woman chimes in. I draw myself close to Quincy, who pulls me into his arms tightly. And I am surprised that the urge to engage in marital bickering remains in me even amid what is happening. The urge runs in me strong like some invisible bladder. Run now! Quincy pulls me even closer, until we hear nothing, not even a ding of an elevator or thud of a closed door, just the woosh of the steady hotel a. He will worry over it and I will worry over his worry, and then feel forced to walk a kind of pee plank.
I want to stay put. I want to stay in bed. Not go to the bathroom close to the door. Close to the commotion. The sunrise, I decide, will be the all-clear for me to get up from our king-size lockdown.
This is as much logic as I can muster on a full bladder. Quincy has multiple alarms set on his phone depending on when he has to get up for one of his several teaching gigs, all set in the tone of a loud dog bark. They Have to pee stories go off unexpectedly if he forgets to turn off the alarm for one gig or another.
This is our more familiar middle of the night ruckus. When this happens, I usually groan and jostle the sheets dramatically. When not barking, his phone also beeps out calendar alerts. Bladder Standard Time moves slowly, backward it feels like, sometimes. I started to do this when I would debate middle-of-the-night bathroom trips but then I began to do it all the time.
The feeling instantly puts me at ease. Sometimes his fingers start to slip down lower, sometimes with success, other times I pull his hand back up. Our Equator of Horniness. Sometimes his hand on my abdomen reminds me of how people put a hand over the heart to steady the heartbeat and it makes me wonder if my bladder is more my heart than my heart is.
I often hear that no matter how awful a relationship is, sex can save it. Lots of sex. Sex is only the logical consequence of all that talk. As much as I want to slip his hand there right now, I know it would be too much. What remains of my better senses at a. Our honeymoon offered an initiation to the upper limits of my bladder. We were staying in an island resort called The Caves. It was our last night, and I thought this was going to be the night we tried to make a baby.
I was wearing next to nothing, some skimpy slip. I was about to go do a pre-sex pee when all of a sudden we heard a quiet flap-flap and then saw it: a small bat swooping into our room and right into the mosquito netting that covered our bed, a netting that lurched closer and closer to us as the oscillating room fan passed by it. The bat eventually went up to the rafters but I refused to go to the bathroom until daylight.
When I think about it now, I think how young we were. We often tell this story as a dinner party anecdote. We talk about the mosquito netting, the rafters, but I never mention the pee, nor what I think is the true kicker of the story—that I believe the bat was my future child telling me to wait. At we hear a knock on another door, two quick raps and the door clicks open and shut. My mind goes wild. I wonder what is worth knowing and what about this might be a mouse in the daylight. I move to put my feet on the ground. My feet are swallowed up in the pitch black and then feel stung by the freezing cement floor.
I pause there for a moment. I quickly feel guilty. I think of the scene in that movie Titanic where the elderly couple held each other as the ship drowned and another from my favorite TV show Lost when stranded islanders Jin and Song held each other as what was to be their getaway boat filled with water—the thought of which of course makes me want to pee further. And I criticize myself for getting all aggravated with Quincy during what could be a dangerous, life or death time, or at least something that evokes such feelings. This is not how I would want to go I think, all full of pee and marital fury.
I saw my first gun up close just a few months ago. It was early November. Diwali was underway, the Indian festival of lights. The teacher was South Asian and the student body was, largely, too. That evening we were discussing how celebrating Diwali would be a nice way to break up the long and rough stretch of New York City cold that had begun. The night felt free and happy, like our own little Diwali party. We were laughing at something together, in fact, when the young man walked in and Have to pee stories at the top of our table.
He was there before we realized it, so deep we were in our laughter. It was large, shiny, and silver, bigger than the young man. He was a thin and scrawny boy, really. I remember the gun looking like it could have been a prop in a Western, but maybe that is just what the mind does when it needs to.
As scary as that moment was, I felt even more scared when the cops came. Three different sets— plainclothes, uniformed officers, and a detective. When my classmates came back, they looked more shaken up than even during the robbery. I worried then about Quincy, who would soon pick me up. I get up and back into bed three times and then finally around plant my feet firmly on the cold floor.
I come up to the side of the bed and he takes my arm in the way that I know he might take my arm and lead me to the Have to pee stories when we are old. We shuffle down, taking careful steps in that pitch dark.
Quincy stands at the door as I jump into the bathroom and pee a pee that seems to have operatic registers, soaring highs and lows, abrupt breaks and spirited staccatos. It all seems beautiful and majestic. I just pee some more, run out, and then we jump back into bed. I tell Quincy and he says he can flush for me. It is no romantic holding-hands-as-a-ship-drowns, but the gesture makes me swoon nonetheless.
She is working on a collection of personal essays and a TV pilot. Editor: Sari Botton. Nina Sharma Longre June 2, 9 minutes 2, words The first night of our vacation, I wake up in the middle of the night needing to pee. Quincy turns to his side for a moment and even that feels like too much. I feel that bickering impulse rise up in me again.
Just a few minutes later, I break. Click to share on Twitter Opens in new window Click to share on Facebook Opens in new window Click to share on Pocket Opens in new window Click to share on Instapaper Opens in new window Click to this to a friend Opens in new window.
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