I have a new thing to add to my list of favourites. The short version is needing to wee really early in the morning in winter. But it’s most certainly necessary to elaborate.
Now, admittedly, this particular set of circumstances doesn’t happen very often, but when it all does come together it’s a veritable perfect storm of urinary inflicted torment.
Imagine, it’s ridiculous o’clock in the morning. Still darker than the heart of man. You wake up and before you even have a chance to realise where you are it hits you. Your bladder is knocking on the door of your brain with hands made of pure pain and discomfort. Now all you can think about is how badly you need to empty your system of urine. At this point you are still unaware that outside of your duvet or your team of blankets, it’s colder than a cheating ex. You open your eyes only to be greeted by nothingness. It’s so dark your pupils would need to be at least three times bigger than they can ever be just to see vague shapes. If you are a female human I assume this is a difficult time for you, but as a man I can’t know for sure. If you are a male human, times are hard and very uncomfortable right now.
You are now just taking the first steps of a decision-making journey like no other. The proportions of which, no human has known before. You will experience more more doubt, fear and skepticism than Frodo on his epic journey through Middle Earth. Your bed is your Shire. It’s where you want to be more than anything, but you are still reaching that epiphany.
Still half way between awake and blissfully asleep, it dawns on you that your only option is to get out of your Shire bed and go to the toilet. Your mind starts to wrestle. Not the WWE kind where it’s staged. Greco-Roman baby. That uneasy, sweaty kind where two men get far too close in clothing that is far too small and tight. Surely there are other options? You could stay in bed and go back to sleep right? Right!
So that’s what you do. You fall into heavenly sleep. Unburdened rest. After what feels like 3 seconds of sleep you awake again. The pain you previously felt is swimming in the Mariana Trench of your your new pain. You are forced into a decision to make the horrific journey. That is until you move your duvet. A one millimeter gap opens near your shoulder and the coldest air in recorded history rushes into to your hot air cocoon faster than a Jamaican shoplifter on crystal-meth running from the law. You instantaneously pull that duvet back onto your body and try to forget. Your foot might cope better, you think, so you try to start with that. As your foot breaks the barrier between unearthly warmth and freeze-a-polar-bear-to-death cold you feel your toes immediately blackening from the onset of frostbite.
Your bladder is now the size of a watermelon and throbbing like a Fifty Shades of Gray reference. You must push through. You must endure. Reluctantly you slide out of your nest of warmth. You can still only see what God saw in Genesis 1:2. Nothing.
You shuffle your feet around hoping they will somehow glide effortlessly into your slippers. You are stupid for trying. That kind of luck is unheard of in the blackness of the urinary journey to cold hell.
If you share your bed with another, you now sprout a seedling of concern in your heart for him or her. You accept the next challenge of your journey. To do it in monk-like silence. Not those annoying, loud Gregorian chanting ones. The enlightened, vow-of-silence ones.
No slippers on your feet, obviously, you move at a sloth-like pace towards your relief. You will kick your toes on at least one thing before you reach the door of the room that houses the porcelain Mount Doom. You must enter so you can release the urine of destiny into the abyss. It goes without saying that your bathroom door squeaks like a horror movie swing so you open it slower than a slug on a salt pan. It still squeaks. Obviously.
First step in and your naked foot touches the floor. Tiles! Tiles made of Eskimo bricks! It’s still darker than a black hole at night so you have to awkwardly crouch as you move towards the toilet, slowly waving your hand out in front of you to feel for it. It feels like an age to get there, but you eventually get a hand on it. If you are a guy, this is right when you realise that, for visibility and logistical reasons, you are going to have to wee girl-style. Sitting down. Just to break your manhood down a little more.
Both male and female are equal again. Pants down you slowly, apprehensively take a seat. It’s the Ice Queen’s very throne beneath you! How can a solid object be made of liquid nitrogen and still take your weight? Neither science nor religion have any answers.
Suddenly, in an instant, your entire body is relaxed. I mean like day-spa-relaxed. Asleep-on-the-beach-relaxed. Amsterdam-coffee-shop-relaxed. The world makes sense again and your journey back to your bed, though slightly awkward, is nowhere near as arduous as the one you just conquered like a champion. You settle in to glorious, warm rest and drift off to sleep.
Later, when you wake up at a reasonable time the punishing events that took place mere hours ago are a distant, extremely vague memory. It’s a trap. Tonight, or the next night, or the one after that when you are holding a glass of water, about to drink it before you get into bed, you will not remember your recent ordeal. You will down it like a refreshing thirst quencher. Not seeing it for the witches brew that it is.
You’ve stepped right into the early morning wee trap all over again. Enjoy it fool.
http://shanerielly.com/wp-content/uploads/2016/09/shane-rielly.png00Shanehttp://shanerielly.com/wp-content/uploads/2016/09/shane-rielly.pngShane2013-06-14 07:38:422013-06-14 22:07:29The wee hours of the morning. An epic journey.