Pee Pee Dance

We all know the feeling. The wince at every movement that places pressure in the wrong spot and your bladder cries out;

“No! How could you be so foolish!? Empty me!”

However, you’re waiting in line at the bank. It’s after work and your fourth coffee just pushed you to your limit.

You need to go.

Now.

So you look around, not too obviously at the line in front of you. It stretches at least twenty more people in front you. You look back, the line that way is even longer. It’s either go, lose your spot in the line and be late home for dinner again, or stay and push your pain tolerance to the point where you’re cramping up. Neither option was pleasant, but you’d rather face spontaneous combustion than risk another night on the couch.

There are many styles of the dance. You have the ‘cross everything you can approach’ where you turn your legs in, weave one knee under the other and hope that this outer entanglement will cause some knot inside you to form, a kink in the hose if you will. Then there’s the ‘Charlie Chaplain’ approach, where you casually stand with your feet shoulder-width apart, turning your feet outward slightly, hoping that the lack of movement down there will strengthen your endurance to suffer through the trial by urine. We also have the ‘jitterbug’ where you whistle to yourself or hum under your breath and do a little jig, hoping in some miricle of medical science you can reverse the process of your kidneys doing thier job.

Of course, you take the high road. ‘The Catwalk’ approach. You sublty shift your weight as you bring one leg forward and cross it in front of the other, placing one hand on your hip- so as to not make it obvious- and glancing around casually.

Curse it, there are so many people in this line!

As you move forward, you alternate which leg is in front, looking like Karlie Kloss as you make your way further towards the teller.

6 people left.

It’s getting desperate now.

You look around the room again to try and distract yourself, but you catch sight of the men’s bathroom. A man in a suit walks out, fidling with his tie, smiling to himself, looking quite smug. You narrow your gaze and follow his with your eyes as he leaves.

5 people left.

The ‘Catwalk’ approach isn’t cutting it anymore. You’ve moved up to a DEFCON 3 so you start to ‘jitterbug,’ the other people in the line looking at you in annoyance and distaste for your pitchy, whistled, rendition of the ‘Titanic’ theme.

2 people left.

You’re now at a DEFCON 2, you knew if you had to wait more than another minute, the bank would have it’s own DEFCON 1 situation all over the floor.

Finally!

You step up the the fenced window and quickly pass over the needed paper work, now hopping from one foot to the other. The teller must be at least three-hundred and sixty, her hands quake and she moves like stamping your paperwork was brain-surgery.

When you relinquish your papers, you give a shout of relief as you hightail it- at a brisk walk, of course- toward the blue bathroom door. It’s practically calling your name.

Two metres.

One metre.

A man moves to stand between you and the door, slapping a Blu-Tac’ed sign up of the door.

It reads;

‘CLOSED FOR CLEANING’