I know what you want, bladder. You have pressed against my abdomen with the subtlety of a Celine Dion vocal run. You want me to get up, excuse myself from this budget meeting and speed walk to the bathroom. You want porcelain, and you want it now. Does it matter to you that I need to mentally rehearse my unnecessary comment about fiscal responsibility, so my boss thinks I care about that? Of course not. You expect me to drop everything and focus on you. Well, I’ve got some news for you, bladder.
I’m not doing it.
I’m taking a stand. And not beside a urinal to pee – a metaphorical stand. You’ve pushed me around with your demands for too long. And always, you do it at the worst times. The moment my car merges onto the interstate for a long road trip, you urgently require a gas station. The very instant I set a steaming bowl of Pad Thai beneath my hungry face, you insist on being emptied. Right in the middle of any dream where I can fly – and you know damn well those are the best kind – you demand prompt evacuation.
And I’ve put up with it. I’ve bought into this narrative that you’re special, and emotionally fragile, and that your every whim must be satisfied. Well, no more! You see my knee bouncing up and down right now? It drastically reduces the urge to pee. I can resist you, bladder.
I’m not your bitch anymore. My body isn’t some stretch limousine inside which you can lounge, sucking down all the diet coke you want, then bark at me to pull over at the nearest Arby’s when you need to take a leak. You are one of my organs, bladder. You are a part of me.
Inside this body, you are part of a team. My team. And before you ask, no, you’re not Lebron. You are not the pampered superstar of this organization. You’re not in the starting five, and to be frank, you don’t even qualify as a bench warmer. In this basketball analogy, bladder, you are that awkward teen who pushes the big mop across the court between possessions to wipe up sweat. You soak up waste and dispose of it. That’s it.
It’s time for you to descend a peg or two, bladder. It’s time for you to behave like the rest of us. Jennifer Lopez may demand $500 lime-scented candles in her hotel rooms, but the rest of us make due with Target brand lavender, on sale for $9.99. Kanye may indulge his impulses to interrupt Grammy speeches, but everyone else lets their insane urges pass harmlessly through their minds. In other words, bladder, it’s time to stop being a diva.
I’ll admit that I share some of the blame in this. I’ve spoiled you. I’m like Mariah Carey’s personal staff, when they agreed to communicate with her in sign language before shows to “preserve Mariah’s voice.” My indulgence of your simultaneously grandiose and toddler-like desires has created this entitlement. I have made you into the monster you are. But now, it has to stop.
I am asserting myself, at last. I won’t be treated like your servant anymore. You are demanding that I run out of this meeting, immediately, so you can purge yourself at a loo. If I don’t, you assure me, you’ll empty your payload into our slacks right here in the conference room and embarrass me for eternity. Well, guess what? I’m through negotiating with your diva terrorism.
See how I’ve crossed my legs so tightly? This reduces the pressure to pee by at least twenty percent. I can hold you off, for as long as it takes. We call this a good, old-fashioned, Mexican stand-off. The tables have turned, bladder, and from now on I’ll decide when –
Okay, I felt a little come out. You weren’t bluffing. Please, exalted bladder, can you hold the rest in until I reach a bathroom? You think so? Oh thank you! I’ll leave this instant, so you can relieve yourself as soon as possible, with no further delay. My sincerest apologies for the inconvenience, oh bladder. Someone of your status shouldn’t have to go just anywhere, so I’ll find you a nice, spacious, single-toilet family restroom.
Just leave everything to me, your humble assistant! I’ll make sure you never have to wait again…