Peeing on the Road

    On our second day of travel from Maine to Georgia, I texted my sister-in-law that we missed an exit on the way to her Atlanta home. I told her we were at a standstill in traffic that spanned miles ahead and miles behind us. We missed our exit right before we came to a complete stop.  

    "We might be late for dinner." I texted her.

    "Oh, you will be about an hour late. I-75 always has bad accidents." She clicked her tongue like we'd done something wrong or were maybe stupid.

    WAZE, our travel navigator, estimated 2.5 hours tacked onto our route.

    The turnoff we missed was where I was going to pee which was right before we got into the four-lane parking lot on the highway in the middle of nowhere with no exits.  My bladder called, the dog panted and paced in the back seat eager for a patch of grass to relieve herself. I laughed about that in a text to her.

    My sister-in-law, a road warrior, herself, who travels back and forth from Atlanta to Michigan several times a year then phoned me up.  "I just pee into a baggie." She casually commented.

    "What are you talking about?" I asked, prompted to scan the truck cab and floor, spying a quart-sized baggie of chocolates. I sneared at the semi-truck driver, a male who would have no trouble whipping out his long digit and peeing into a cup.  

    "I use these little bags you can buy for peeing when I travel and don't want to stop or can't." My sister-in-law carried on with this revelation.

    "Little bags for peeing? Like a Ziplock bag?" I asked her.

    "No, a special bag." She laughed. " I just pull over and get in the back seat." 

    "You'll have to show me that when we get to your house." 

    I decided against emptying the plastic bag full of chocolates to use as my pee receptacle. I longed for one of those blue baggies. I remembered that the bladder works by peristaltic contractions letting you know it's time to relieve the pressure. I comforted myself that I would only feel the urgency to race for the nearest toilet periodically.  

    To pass the time and distract my bulging bladder I continued to listen to the podcast, Conviction, which we'd listened to during most of our three-day drive. We'd been listening to Season 2, entitled American Panic about America in the1980's. An unbelievable true crime story about when kids testified their against parents who they claimed were devil worshiping sex offenders. A case of mass hysteria and all made up. Good intentions of therapists and prosecutors gone terribly wrong.  

    Forty minutes later we crawled past the charred remains of a car that appeared to have spontaneously burst into flames. Workers in bright lime-green vests were shoveling pieces of black metal from the side of the road and into the back of a dump truck.  

    I still had to pee.

    As we left the traffic behind I was eventually able to relieve myself at the next Love's truck stop. The dog was happy to find her patch of grass.

    I guess there are several options when we take our next days-long road trip and Mother Nature calls. I can hold my bladder until it bursts fighting back the sensation of a balloon stretched to the limits and ready for that tiny pin prick that will set the water gushing, or flowing, free, as I pray for the next exit. Or I can pee into a blue baggie made for these female needs.  

    

    My sister-in-law gave me two pee bags (which actually are vomit or emesis bags) the day before we departed for another 10-hour trek from Georgia to southern Florida. I didn't use them but I would.  

    To my way of thinking, waiting for the next exit with a strained bladder or peeping into a blue bag are in so many ways better than wearing a diaper like that astronaut, Lisa Nowak, who drove 900 miles in 2007 from Houston to Orlando to avoid bathroom breaks on her way to attack her ex's girlfriend.

Peeing on the road. Lots of options.