I went to the bathroom twenty times before boarding.
Twenty.
By the time they called our group, I was basically running on caffeine fumes and misplaced confidence.
And yet, the moment I buckled my seatbelt and heard the cabin door thunk shut, my bladder perked up like, Oh, you thought we were done?
We hadn’t even left the gate. The flight attendants were still demonstrating how to fasten a seatbelt—as if that’s the skill anyone struggles with—and I was already sweating.
To recap my stellar pre-flight hydration plan: a homemade latte, a six-dollar Peet’s pumpkin latte (because self-control is overrated), a full bottle of water, and half a Gatorade “for balance.” Turns out there’s a difference between staying hydrated and staging a mutiny in your own lower abdomen.
My husband was seated way up front, near First Class, blissfully unaware of the crisis brewing several rows behind him. I was alone, trapped by social decorum and bladder betrayal.
Five minutes ticked by. Then ten. The plane just sat there, mocking me. I tried breathing exercises. I tried mind over matter. I even gave myself a pep talk: You’ve got this. You’re a grown adult. You went twenty times before boarding. You can survive fifteen more minutes.
Narrator: She could not.
At minute fifteen, I did something I had never done in all my years of air travel. I reached up… and pressed the call button.
The little ding sounded like a public confession.
The flight attendant appeared almost immediately, calm and polite but clearly concerned, and asked, “Is this an emergency?”
Ma’am.
If it weren’t, I wouldn’t have hit the button of shame while we were still parked at the gate. I nodded silently—panicked, desperate—and she gave me the green light.
So I unbuckled, climbed over my seatmate with the grace of a sleep-deprived sloth, and made my way to the lavatory. The floor was sticky (always), the soap smelled like knockoff cologne, and I’m convinced someone had been in there in socks. But in that moment, it was paradise.
When I came back, the flight attendant gave me a sympathetic nod—the kind women give each other when they’ve seen things. I buckled in, humbled but relieved.
Thirty minutes into our more-than-two-hour flight, it happened again. The urge. The panic. The bargaining. But this time, I held the line. I clenched my willpower, my dignity, and possibly my urinary tract.
When we finally landed, my husband was waiting at the end of the jetway, smiling like nothing had happened. I walked up to him, said, “Don’t talk to me,” and made a beeline for the nearest restroom.
He followed me there while I breathlessly recounted the whole story—and then I peed. Again.
Absurdities and Fires 