Tinkle Tinkle Little Old Man

Posted by Danny

The older I get, the more I pee. 

I just don’t understand it.  Not only do I pee more, but it also takes longer to evacuate an equal amount of fluid.

In my younger days, if I stood before a urinal, I immediately started to go.  The only exception was at the Dean Dome at UNC.  They have long troughs – they herd you in and you stand shoulder to shoulder to the Tarheel next to you.  I stare at the tile wall in front of me, scared of what I might see if I turn my head the least bit to the left or right.  In those instances, I work hard to imagine something happy and peaceful, like my grandmother’s fried chicken.  It takes a lot, regardless of your age, to pee with dudes bumping your arms on either side.

But that’s not what I’m talking about.  Be it the Dean Dome or my own private toilet, I stand and wait.

There really ought to be some sort of iPad designed to hang from the wall behind a man’s toilet.  Might as well do something productive as much time as I spend there.  Sometimes I make a call – but then its awkward when I forget I’m on the phone and flush.

“Bruce, was that a toilet flush?”

“Ahh – I don’t think so…I’m outside, the wind is incredible here.  Gotta go.”

And I probably do “have to go” again, because it won’t all come out on the first try.

Sometimes I pee three or four times before I go to sleep.  Pee, lay down.  Man, I think I need to go some more.  Ridiculous!  You JUST went.  Go to sleep.  Dude, there is still more in there.  And back up I am. 

It’s never a false alarm.  Every time I’m in front of a toilet, something comes out.  It might only be a teaspoon full – but there’s pee.

I think there might be a catch in my urethra.  Sort of like when the yard hose gets bent and water won’t come out.

I knew I was peeing more than ever, but last year it became apparent how my bladder was changing. 

The family was on a road trip, and we pulled in to a rest stop.  Jesse, my father-in-law and I all approached the urinals at about the same time.  As I stood there, I heard Jesse – his flow was quick and strong.  He’d clearly had a lot to drink that morning, but his exit was clear.  His thirty year old self finished and washed his hands.

About that time, I began…

Dribble, dribble, dribble…

Flow… Stop.  Flow… Stop.

Dribble, Dribble.

Drop, Drop, Drop.

When I arrived at the car, Jesse was in the driver’s seat listening to music with another soda in his hand.

A few minutes later, the seventy year old headed toward the car.

And thus is life.  Twenty years from now, I’ll be the last to leave the bathroom.  Jesse will be in the middle and Michelle’s stinkin’ husband will be through and throwing the football by the picnic table with my grandson.

I never dreamed I’d spend this much of my life in a bathroom.  Maybe I’ll try standup Sudoku.

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