The tale of the abandoned panties
Ageing causes women to become incontinent.
I don't mean incontinent, as in having no control over bladder function...ok, maybe I do mean that. But in my defence, I was halfway into my evening run, and it was still too light outside to squat behind a bush unseen by the neighbour folk.
And I had to go really REALLY bad! So it...sort of...came.
But it's alright. It's not like I left a puddle or a trail.
But that only happened once...
...Ok, maybe more than once.
But it doesn't count when I sneeze. It's not the same as, "I have to pee...I'll just pee my pants."
When I sneeze, urine comes shooting out of me. It's not satisfying like having a good pee. It's more of a projectile urination.
I have known for years that there would come a time when I would require feminine hygiene products to keep me feeling clean and fresh for more than just that "time of the month."
My mother entered menopause over 20 years ago, and yet, I still see boxes of panty liners and pads in her bathroom.
When I asked her why she continued to cushion her panties daily with those awkward cardboard cut-outs meant to resemble the shape of a female crotch, she said, "Because when you get older, you leak."
Like an old faucet...
This week as I was on route to the movie theatre, I felt a sudden stream of pee in my panties.
Unlike the running incident, this time, I was not purposefully peeing my pants.
The pee was sort of just...well, leaking out of me.
Once I reached my destination, I scurried to the public washroom, where I quickly pulled down my pants.
Nothing but a big wet spot.
And not a spot that could be ignored for the duration of the movie. I could not sit in a pool of my own pee for two hours and enjoy my M&Ms.
So I took my pants off. Removed my panties. Put them in the convenient little box by the toilet. Put my pants back on. And went into the movie theatre "commando."
Today, however, as I was walking into the mall, it happened again.
Unexpected stream of pee.
Once again, I headed to the nearest public washroom, pulled down my pants, and inspected the wetness.
Once again, I pulled down my pants, removed my panties, threw them in the convenient metal box beside the toilet, and realized I was quickly becoming the "Where's Waldo" of underwear.
Like it or not, I think it's time to load up on feminine hygiene products; otherwise, my husband, who does the laundry, is going to start wondering whose driving around town with a collection of my panties hanging from their rearview mirror.