I have always had a problem with my bladder. I’ve never worn what elderly people in Ameican wear (Depends) or anything like that, but maybe I should start. In high school I never left my home in the 9^th without another shirt tied around my waist for fear of an accident! Over the years that didn’t change. I hadn’t had one in a long time, but long shirts, sweaters, jackets, were the norm.

My husband had never understood it though, even when I told him about some of my most embarrassing moments. That is, until it happened the night we had dinner with his American boss who’d flown into Paris from their Los Angeles office.

We’d been invited to one of the most expensive restaurants in Paris to celebrate a big deal they’d just closed. The champagne and red wine were flowing. I was keeping up with the rest of the group pretty well but hadn’t yet once gone to the toilet. The boss’s wife kept chatting me up and I felt glued to my seat. The good thing is that I didn’t feel the need to go at that time.

.

We left the restaurant after two and a half hours of toasting and drinking, eating, and more drinking and toasting. I wanted to stop at the bathroom on the way out, I really did, but Madame X wouldn’t let me out of her sight for a minute and was even walking with me arm in arm on the way out. I saw the sign for the bathroom and quietly proposed it to him, but my husband said “Oh honey, you want to just wait until we get home? Monsieur and Madame X have a flight to catch early in the morning so I’m sure they’re in a hurry to get back to their hotel.” So be it. I can hold it, is what I thought.

After standing on the curb for a couple minutes waiting for their taxi and our car to be brought around, the chilly Parisian wind caught up with me. I draped my shawl closer around me and inched my way closer to my husband who was in deep conversation with his boss. I tried to nudge his arm but he only put his arm around me. I started prancing just a bit and then slightly jumping up and down. Monsieur X asked me if I were cold. I told him I was and looked down the street to see where the valet was. Noting in sight. Merde! Then the Spring time wind played an an awful trick on me and blew up my skirt exposing my legs and it was the worst feeling of cold.

That’s when it happened. My body betrayed me and I felt what I knew to be Champagne urine running down my legs. They noticed it too as it splashed down over my shoes and onto the sidewalk.

My husband’s face and mine showed sheer horror, as of those or Monsieur and Madame X. Before anyone could utter a word though, the valet drove up, and I dove into the car waving at them and slamming the door. My husband and the boss exchanged a few nervous words about work and talking tomorrow, and then we drove off.

Until this day, we’ve never spoken about the incident, but my husband never suggests I wait when I tell him I need to go to the bathroom now, either.

Submitted by P.E.

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