Photo via Wikimedia Commons. Many psychiatrists claim that one's emotional maturity is stalled at the onset of an addiction; if you become an alcoholic at 16, you might sustain, for decades, the emotional maturity of a year-old. I think the same is true of pee habits, which means I have the bladder of a child drinking at the capacity of a dehydrated year-old. Incontinence is not a daily issue for me, but I've had enough accidents in my life to warrant intervention—at our college graduation, I peed in my friend's grandmother's romper which she let me borrow on the condition that I not pee in it and subsequently had to be tested for diabetes. The incident happened in large part due to the polyuria I developed as a recovering bulimic and caffeine abuser, and it basically means I produce and pass a lot of urine.
This article was sponsored by Evenflo. I hadn't anticipated incontinence and hip pain. It's just not always convenient or possible. A year-old who had a hysterectomy. Then we retired to the couch, where we chatted some more, made a couple of hilarious adult-diaper jokes, then made out. I often get nervous before I post as I really am Peeeing my emotions out there for the world to see. As soon as the Peieng stopped clapping, I sprinted ahead of the stampede to the one existing toilet in the theater. Wine Peeing undies. With a unique slide and lock system, you can effortlessly switch from a single to double by flipping out the integrated mounts for a second Peeinb seat, and sliding up the handle to add a bit more room. Researchers then looked at the health stats of those people throughwhen they were years old.
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Because of that, many of my other adventures started to quiet down. Since I had handled things poorly in the past, I decided to do some research on relationships. What makes them work? How do you keep from losing yourself? How many times can you tell someone to suck it when he suggests watching Daredevil on Netflix before you seem inflexible? These were important questions I needed answered. During my how-to-relationship travels, I stumbled on one of those ubiquitous listicles.
According to the Relationship Masters, there were seven levels of intimacy in a relationship:. As the smell of red curry and Thai basil wafted through his kitchen for probably the first time ever, I felt like a culinary ambassador. He was standing in the kitchen with me, leaning on the counter and chatting as I cooked.
At one point, he said something funny. At that same moment, tragically, I happened to be gnawing on a chunk of baby carrot. I proceeded to inhale a relatively large chunk of carrot, which caused me to start coughing. I pretty much peed my pants. I was wearing a skirt, but you get the idea. Did that just happen? Adult diapers? A pressure washer? A time ma- chine so I can go back and tell four-years-ago-me to do more Kegels? At this point I was still in denial about him finding out; my mind raced with ways that I could distract him long enough to get upstairs and shower.
Should I start a fire? I could start a small one — not big enough to do any real damage, just big enough so that the cleanup would take approximately twenty minutes. I wonder what percentage of house fires are started by people who just peed their pants and are trying to cover it up. I finally decided I had to tell him because the small pool of urine at my feet was going to give me away no matter what.
I mean, unless the entire kitchen was engulfed in flames. Those memorable thresholds we cross, like the first kiss, the first time you cry in front of your partner, and the first root-vegetable- induced bladder explosion. So here it is. That was such a cute skirt. Or not dead, exactly, but definitely flailing around on the wet kitchen floor and needing to be woven into a new, incontinent version of me.
I pulled it off, put my foot into the sink, splashed water all the way up my leg and onto the floor in another puddle, then did the same with the other foot. I used his hand towel to dry When I emerged from the bathroom, he offered me the boxer briefs and asked again if there was anything he could do. I told him to stay out of the kitchen for a couple of minutes and he went and sat on the couch. All the while, I was wondering how one brings sexy back after an incident like this.
Justin Timberlake probably never peed his pants while making dinner for Jessica Biel. I mean, what am I, eighty? Or rather, what is my vagina, eighty?
Three months is a significant moment in a relationship. Is there enough there to invest more, or should I come up with an escape plan? Limerence is probably why some relationships that are doomed last a bit longer than they otherwise would.
I peed my pants earlier. Then we retired to the couch, where we chatted some more, made a couple of hilarious adult-diaper jokes, then made out. It turns out, sexy did come back, and just a couple of hours later.
The only way I can explain it is that I was dating someone who liked humans. I woke up the next morning and cooked breakfast without incident. Again and again, against my will.
Because I cry when I get angry, which makes me angrier. Because I like John Denver. These are bombs that are just waiting to go off someday. And they will go off. Relationships are all fun and games until someone pees her pants or likes John Denver.
And when that happens, your affection for him grows because of it. I just tell people to buy a family-size can of Lysol and hope for the best. Someone could make a lot of money selling shock collars to daters. Get on it, science! I call it the bladder-oversharing level.
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I know. I hear your soul crying. But try not to let the gravity of this day weigh you down. God knows most of your physical self has already lost the invisible force war. Bladders are flighty organs.
We hear so much these days about irritable bowels. But forget all the fame IBS gets. You and I both know the bladder is a petulant child in need of serious scolding. You pee your pants. So what? Oh, a market does exist, Esteem. Listen, I get it. The struggle is real. The affliction drips with irony, in fact.
The story begins with having beautiful children whom we love with every fiber of our being. They curate within our sacred womb for nine months, pressing and prodding every organ within the general vicinity of our uterus, i. Our bladder feels the biggest pinch. Over time our mom bodies begin to falter one part at a time, sometimes entire sections malfunction overnight.
For some of us, once 40ish hits, our plumbing goes to Hades due to diminishing bladder skills from housing and delivering our kin.
These are the same kin who willfully abstain from using the porcelain God during potty training season. The joy and freedom of all-day dryness is foreign to toddlers.
Meanwhile, as adults, we want nothing more than to expel in a toilet, but instead succumb to piss-anting in our pants against our will. Forget the paradox. Remember the unrealistic expectations you had for your toddlers back in the day, the anger and frustration? Esteem, I know you are feeling low and broken today. Absorb the positives as best you can and try not to let the negatives dampen your spirit. And remember how you then tried to refrain from significant movements, well, except for all the wine you kept pouring into your mouth?
And then remember how you and several other friends decided to scare other members of your friend group by running through their yards in the dark and sneaking up to their windows?
Honestly, Esteem. You only have yourself to blame. No more simple side-to-side step moves with meek finger snapping to the beat. Oh, wait. Too many close calls for comfort! Always is over. Move over twisted sister. Loud, cackling, belly laughs are back in business. Because we all know how awkward and obvious it looks when you try to cross your legs while stand-laughing.
Therefore, a due amount of stress will continue during the first trials. Wine wisely. The unfortunate sidebar of notoriety is the circle of people privy to your peeing will widen. But fret not because if you sign up for the newsletter you earn VIPee status. Check their website. It's no secret that baby gear can get expensive so when you're adding a new bundle of joy to the family, you have to consider all of your options.
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My dad took me to see Poltergeist in the movie theater when I was 4 years old um, thanks, Dad? That was a defining moment in my life, as it produced two conversely related effects on me—my unshakable fear of what is lurking in the closet and my undying love of horror films. I've always been drawn to the scariest of stories. If a movie has a killer in it, I am first in line. If it is loaded with suspense and jump-out-of-your-seat moments, even better.
Bring on the psycho madmen, creepy characters, blood, guts and gore. Of course, the classics are the best a la John Carpenter , and the zombie movies in the past decade both campy and not have been stellar.
Big fan, huge. But there is one thing I've noticed about my undying love of scary movies lately—it's dying. And the only things to blame for this decline in slasher flick enthusiasm are the biggest blessings of my life, my two children.
I started noticing it when I was pregnant with my first son. Whenever a scary movie would debut, my friends would come a-calling. Much to their surprise, I shied away from most invitations, saying I didn't want the murderous moments to spook me straight into labor.
I kept making excuses, and now here I sit, a few years later, with two little boys and a scary movie addiction I used to have. My horror consumption, both in book and movie form, has dwindled to nil.
Here's why: being a parent introduces a whole new level of vulnerability into your life. There's something about holding your tiny child in your arms that rearranges your psyche. You now hold a level of responsibility that you never did before—you are in charge of keeping another human safe. Most parents don't want to imagine their own children being preyed upon by any threat, fictional or otherwise.
I'm sure my waning desire to be voluntarily scared to death has been impacted by societal issues as well. With one horrific mass shooting after another, terrifying situations that used to be just the plots of scary movies are now on the news regularly. Someone coming after a group of strangers with unexplainable bloodthirst is not so inconceivable anymore. So, it's time to make a change, and "think happy thoughts," as they say.
I will remember fondly the days that I excitedly sat and watched one chilling film after another sometimes even by myself , but you won't find me engaging in that pastime much anymore. It used to be that being jarred into breathless fear made me feel alive; but now, I'll just take a boring Tuesday, please. As parents, we really like boring days where nothing goes wrong and everyone is happy, don't we?
Oh, dearest scary movies, the parents of the world bid you a fond farewell. Our hearts spend enough time in our throats thanks to day-to-day parenting; we don't choose to have them lodged there in our "free" time. It was nice knowing you. A few months after the birth of my daughter, the nagging guilt of leaving her with a nanny was still a ghost that incessantly whispered in my ear, informing me with glee that I was a terrible mother and an even worse human.
I felt like I was falling apart. Ten weeks postpartum was not my best look. My eye circles were heavy, my hair was beginning to fall out, my belly was soft and languid and my legs seemed almost atrophied.
Even so, I had decided that it would be best for me to return to my job as a Pilates instructor. I tried to avoid looking at what I considered the Cubism version of myself. I kept catching glimpses of my reflection in the fully mirrored Pilates studio, a funhouse version that followed me everywhere with its strange, new, blurred features.
I had half-expected my body to be perfectly placed back into its pre-baby arrangement like a real-life version of Operation. I hadn't anticipated incontinence and hip pain. Adding insult to injury, my teaching rhythm was off and my baby brain made me forget complex anatomical terms, such as "arm" and "hamstring.
It's safe to say I was in a delicate place, mentally and physically. So it shouldn't be a surprise that I almost lost it when a coworker, who found out I was a new mother, innocently asked, "So, who's watching the baby right now?
It was a stake in my heart, a verbal reminder that I had left my sweet angel in the cold hands of a stranger in order to go back to work. I fumbled with my response, articulating that yes, she was with a nanny, but the nanny wasn't a full-time nanny , and I was home by p. I thought about the interaction for the next few days.