Urinary A Complaint

Well, I set a new personal record last night: I had to get up FIVE TIMES to go to the bathroom. I’ll let you digest that statistic before continuing with this narrative.

Those of you reading this who think you are qualified to offer a medical opinion, even though you most certainly are not, will jump to one of the following conclusions:

  • I have an enlarged prostate (one instance where bigger is not better; mine is average-sized but I know how to use it)
  • I have undiagnosed diabetes (I don’t; my fasting sugar is in the low 80s)
  • I’m on a diuretic for high blood pressure (while I am mildly hypertensive, my prescription is not for a diuretic, and in fact I have recently lost a fair bit of weight in hopes I can go off the meds)
  • I am consuming caffeinated or alcoholic drinks too close to bedtime (nope; I do all my drinking — both coffee and booze — in the early morning hours in order to provide sufficient time for their after-effects to wear off)
  • I am pregnant (not possible: I always use protection, even when I’m by myself)

As I age, my bathroom habits are experiencing change more unwelcome than a pocketful of pennies. As long as I’m dragging you down this path with me, I’ll now mention my BMs. SIDEBAR: Why do we have so many euphemisms for the normal bodily functions each and every one of us experience? Why are we so reluctant to say “urinate,” “defecate,” and “flatulate” — as well as all the terms for male and female sexual organs and achieving orgasm? What if we felt the same way about, I dunno… brushing our teeth?

  • “Finding myself alone in the bathroom, I succumbed to a mounting urge for some oral self-stimulation. Pulling my ‘special friend’ from its case (hidden in the back of the medicine cabinet), I applied a small amount of gel to the brush, its bristles shaped to caress with equal skill both the hard surfaces of my enamel and the soft, pliable ridges of my gums. Keeping a firm grip on the handle, I made a few tenuous attempts at contact and quickly found a satisfying motion and rhythm. Soon, my jaw went slack as I opened my mouth wider and wider, taking in all of the appliance. After several minutes of increasing stimulation, the gel finally erupted into a frothy mix. I could feel my pulse pounding in the roof of my mouth. Completely spent, and with my teeth gleaming white, I turned off the brush, carefully rinsing it clean before lustily running the back of my hand over the fluoride-laced spume covering my mouth and dripping onto my chin. Drained from the experience, I poured myself a digestif of Listerine, taking small sips as my lips curled into a satisfied grin.”

What was I talking about?

Oh yes — my bathroom habits. We recently returned from a nine-day trip to Scotland, which was amazing except for two things: 1) my dear wife contracted a horrendous stomach bug shortly after we arrived, and 2) the moment I saw “haggis” on the menu, my bowels shut down for the entire vacation (unlike my poor wife’s. And if you don’t know what haggis is, I won’t rob you of your innocence here). I — could — not — poop, regardless of how much porridge I consumed at breakfast. The Scottish cuisine is light on salad, so that remedy was not readily available. It also didn’t help matters that we stayed in five different hotels during our nine-day visit, giving me insufficient time to become comfortable with my new surroundings while simultaneously adjusting to European lavatory standards.

But enough of this shi… er, enough of this. It’s quickly approaching 10 in the morning, so time for me to gulp down the last of the day’s French roast, and single-malt, before going dry for the remainder of the day. As they say in Scotland… Well, I don’t actually know what they say in Scotland, since everyone there speaks with a Garlic accent. But that’s a topic I’ll flush out another time; right now I have to leave for an appointment so I won’t be flatulate.

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