by Clifford Kurt

Created on: July 10, 2009

I am not a bedwetter. In fact, I haven't wet the bed since I was 41 years old. Why, I change my bed sheets every six months, whether they need it or not.

But today, my co-workers must think I'm the poster boy for all those middle-aged, white-male incontinents. This through no fault of my own except my fierce dedication to good hygiene. (We can file this essay under, "Today, it stinks to be me.")

It all began with a seemingly ordinary, definitely innocent trip to the men's room. As usual, I carried my iPod (carrying a newspaper is an embarrassing admission of one's gastratory motives) so I could occupy my mind playing solitaire while - well, suffice it to simply say I was making a trip to the men's room.

Everything was fine, ordinary, almost pleasant in a proctologist son's curiosity sort of way. I did my duty (winning the solitaire game in the process), and proceeded to the sink to wash my hands. And here's where the trouble began. Or the hilarity ensues. Take your pick.

I pressed down on the hand-soap pump, giving it a good couple of squirts. But I didn't feel any soap on my hands. I'd heard the soap squirt out of the dispenser, but it was nowhere to be seen. My search for the soap was becoming reminiscent of the famous hair gel scene in "Something About Mary."

And then I found it. Two large, dark spots on and next to my fly. Not good, friends.

I assessed the situation. It was about 10:00 AM. I had six hours of work ahead of me. Could I restrict all my work duties to my desk? Maybe. Followed by a looong commute home where I would encounter hundreds of subway and MARC train riders, none of which, I'm sure, wants to stand or sit next to an incontinent. Clearly, there was no way I could allow these dark stains to remain.

So I grabbed some paper towels, soaked 'em up with hot water and scrubbed away at the soap stains.

I've heard the oft-misused phrase, "This was where things went from bad to worse," but really, this was where things went from bad to worse.

The soap didn't simply wash away from my pants. The stains became all sudsy and frothy, a white, bubbly mess on the front of my pants. Dear reader, I will now pause while you insert your own obscene, disgusting, at-my-expense joke here. (Pausing - long.) Are you done? That was easy, wasn't it? Too easy.

So now, I had two rather large patches of white sudsy soap sitting on and next to my fly. I had an office full of co-workers to pass through, followed by a google of commuters. Oh, what was a hygienic boy to do?

I feared further scrubbing would make the stains larger, wetter and frothier. I thought about putting a sign on my neck reading, "It's not what you think. They're soap stains. You're sick for thinking what you thought." But like any good Republican, I understand it's best not to call further attention to our flaws, so I nixed the sign idea.

I ran reconnaissance through the bathroom and, luckily, I found a newspaper. This would allow me to escape to my office, hiding my unintentional mis-deeds behind the sports section, which I did. Successfully.

So now it's about 1:30. I've had the wet, white, frothy stains on my pants for about three and a half hours. They've gone from wet and frothy to simply white and crusty. I can't freakin' win. I truly don't know how I'm going to navigate the Metro/MARC stations tonight.

Well, I suppose it could be worse. I could have re-created any of a number of great scenes from Something About Mary. I guess a couple of stains on my pants are better than hearing my girlfriend's brother yelling about my "frank and beans" to the EMT's.

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