John Cleese vs the Kegels

Gary and I were sitting at the table after completing a particularly exciting stage of Mansions of Madness, when I realized I had not gotten up to pee in four hours. This is double the amount of time I usually give myself. You’d think that I’d know my bladder was full, but that nerve shorted out years ago. I might never have known, but when I stood up gravity came into play and I realized that the situation was more urgent than my bladder had let on.

Gary was in my way.

“Get out of my way.”

Gary got out of my way, because he’s seen me in that hunched over bladder-clutching pose before. I began to move and realized that if I was going to make it the 15 yards to the bathroom I would have to employ The Silly Walk.

Ladies, you know. The one where you have to walk and keep your legs clamped together. The Riverdance walk. Everything above the knees is a statue. Your shins shuffle you slowly to the bathroom.

“Don’t laugh at me, I have to do The Silly Walk.”

For just a moment, I saw my husband’s face, as he briefly considered treating me as a human being with dignity. I began to move.

Then he shrieked, “THE SILLY WALK!” and went into a rendition of John Cleese’s Silly Walk.

I clamped my eyes shut. (I also used my hands and clamped my crotch shut, because the situation was beyond Kegels.)

“Stop it! I mean it!”

Then he started laughing, goose-stepping, and screaming, “Don’t mention the war!” which is the funniest line from the funniest episode of Fawlty Towers.

I began to simultaneously 1) laugh 2) scream, “You little shit” and 3) pee all over myself. And I peed a lot. My pajama bottoms were completely soaked.

“You are cleaning this up.” I shouted/giggled, pointing at the growing puddle at my feet.

“Eww! No! It smells.” I had asparagus at lunch.

I began to stride to the bathroom, but made a sudden swerve to give him a sloppy wet pelvic bump. He ran away.

When I was in the shower I could heard him scream as he accidentally stepped barefoot into my puddle while he was mopping it up.

A moment later he opened the shower door. I gave him a suspicious glare.

“No really,” he said “I just want you to clean off my feet. I’m leaving pee footprints all over the house.”

“You’re cleaning those up too,” I said, and I grabbed the spray nozzle shower attachment. And I sprayed off his feet.

Our eyes met. For a moment he looked grateful. Sadly, the look on my face must have given away his situation: he was fully clothed, standing in front of a humiliated woman who was armed with a shower nozzle. He only got a little damp before he closed the shower door.