of growing up in the age of YouTube where the world’s most mortifying moments are immortalized. Especially when a particular incident occurs your first week of high school, gets more than four million hits, and defines your existence. That, and King’s parents didn’t brand him with five ridiculous syllables. In ink. On a birth certificate. Forever.
I hunch lower in my seat, and a sharp pain stabs my bladder. I can’t believe I downed that water bottle at the gate and didn’t pee before boarding. Frickin’ Hot Guy. I lean forward and look right. The nice lady’s head jerks as she falls asleep, and the sweaty aisle guy is snoring. At the same moment, the drink trolley begins its creaky journey toward our row. I tuck my skirt under my knees and shift a few times until the pain passes. No need to make a scene crawling over bodies to get to the aisle and use the gross bathroom. Then I’d have to wait for the flight attendants to finish their leisurely stroll hawking drinks before I even make it back. For sure I can make it to our refueling in Alaska. For sure.
* * *
Stage three of the have-to-pee stages: Your bladder is full. It is close to bursting. The pain builds to the point where the slightest move could cause urine to leak down your leg.
Stage three began forty-five minutes ago, and it’s still an hour before we refuel. The nice lady and the sweaty guy are totally comatose, and I’m squirming in my seat, wringing my book, desperate to find any position that is maybe, slightly, possibly a little bit less painful. But, holy God, I can’t wait another second. I flip off my seat belt, stand, and shake out my skirt, all while pressing my knees together.
Breathe. Breathe. Breathe. Breathe.
I squeeze my eyes shut. Why did I let it go so long? Why didn’t I get up and use the stupid bathroom at the start of the flight when stage two hit? Why do I always make the worst decisions known to mankind? With my body still clenched, I open my eyes and do my best to maneuver past the nice lady, but the effort is wasted. She jerks awake, and the sweaty guy on the end jams his knees into the seat in front of him.
“Sorry, sorry. I’m so sorry,” I whisper as I squash my body between the lady’s legs and her tray stowed in its upright position. It’s then I realize I’m still hugging my book. Now that I’m halfway out of my row, no way am I going back to put it down. The sweaty guy scowls at me as he gets up to let me pass, his thinning hair standing on end from sleeping. “Sorry. I’m so sorry,” I squeak again.
He merely grumbles.
With my first step down the aisle, I suck in a breath and pause until I’m sure I won’t pee right here, right now, in front of the entire plane. Most folks are sleeping or watching their personal TVs, which, unlike mine, are working. Back in control, I set my sights on the four metal doors at the rear of the cabin. Twenty-five rows to go. I clutch my book tighter. Quick, short steps are the key. No jarring movements.
With twelve rows left, we hit a patch of turbulence.
The plane drops minutely. Not enough to alarm anyone—any normal person, that is, who didn’t hold in their pee to the point of having a full-on freak attack. The potential scene unfolds in my mind: the fatal wrong step, urine pooling at my feet. I tense from toes to ears, one hand gripping my book, the other clamped on an aisle seat. Several seconds pass, but I get it together. This will not turn into one of those moments. This will not be another “incident.”
The red Occupied sign flips to green. Vacant.
My bladder constricts in anticipation.
Another big, sweaty guy squeezes from the door and returns to his seat at the rear of the cabin. With my eyes on the prize, I pick up the pace. My steps get longer. Quicker. I don’t break eye contact with that door. I don’t look down. If I had looked down, I might have seen the large black boot sticking out in the aisle. If I had looked down, I might have stepped over it. But I didn’t.
In one glorious move, my sandaled toe smacks into the black boot…and I tumble. Hard. Fast. Face first. The