Damn, I envy men!
If for one thing, they can piss almost anywhere.
Some years ago my husband and I, together with a small group of friends, adventured for a walk in the woods. While one of the men in the group discreetly strayed from us to half-hide in the bushes, I corroded in jealousy of his anatomic advantage which did not oblige him to pull any pants down.
As I stood there listening to someone else babble something absolutely not important, I imagined the relief that fellow in the bush was feeling. My agony barely allowed me to force a crooked smile as he walked back towards us, some ounces lighter.
So I sent some kind mother-nurturing mental notes to my bladder and promised it some more soft-drinks and chocolate milk if it held on just a little longer. However, in the prime of its forty-something years, my bladder decided to rebel.
I found myself squatting near a tree, shorts and panties pulled aside – oh, it felt like heaven – except for my mind constantly bullying me with the image of an unleashed dog striding right up to where I was, and the horror on the face of its owner who would surely be behind Fido.
Fortunately there were no dogs – take that, hooligan mind! – but recently as we plan to go further and further with the bikes, I wonder if I will experience a déjà vu moment while pedaling between towns. It dawned on me that while other bike touring bloggers have had amazing adventures on the road, such as encounters with lions and surviving floods, this blogger’s significant adventure so far was to keep her buttocks away from an insect’s jumping distance.