Short story: I almost peed my pants, so I cleaned out the junk drawer.
Long story: I have been slow to put up the Christmas decorations the past two weeks. An ornament here, a flattened, misshapen wreath there. It’s been a process. The other day I decided to set up my meager, two house Christmas tree village made of lit cardboard and realized the church with the bent tree needed new batteries. So, I went to get batteries. Tell me if you’ve done this before.
I walked into the kitchen and realized I needed to use the restroom. Yes, occasionally I’m seven years old and the obvious, like bodily functions, escapes me. I don’t even know.
The point is, I walked into the kitchen, the kitchen with an adjacent bathroom, and decided it was of paramount importance for me to replace the dead batteries in a cardboard church I’ve ignored for two weeks. Then I could go to the bathroom. I don’t even know.
I mean, I just don’t even know! I guess I thought I was shaving .0025 seconds off my time (what time?) and somehow that was going to make a difference in my day. With .0025 extra seconds in my day, imagine how many times I can, I don’t know, brush my bangs off my forehead. Wonder why mascara makes my eyes burn. Check email.
I walked towards my junk drawer with confidence.
No matter. I knew they were in there; it would take just one quick second (about as long as a tinkle!) to find three AAA batteries.
One minute later, meters of stitch witchery (?) flew through the air like parade tickets and I was absolutely, positively doing the pee-pee dance. But, since I was “in it to win it,” there was no backing down. I rummaged and rummaged and rummaged some more until I found those batteries. And then I grabbed my very favorite case of super small screw drivers and unscrewed the super small screw on the cardboard church and replaced the three batteries. And when the screw fell and got lost in a pile of orchid supplies (?) I rummaged some more until I found it put back together my cardboard church. Then I turned it on to make sure it worked.
I still don’t even know.
There was no way my bladder would survive me cleaning out that junk drawer. No amount of kegel exercises could have helped. I acted my age and used the restroom.
Afterwards, I pulled everything out of the drawer, vacuumed it, tossed out many random things, and put the batteries in an old container, front and center.
When I think of all the batteries I can change on the fly while my pelvic floor vibrates in anger, I want to pinch myself to make sure I’m not dreaming. That much I know.