Let’s talk about something we don’t discuss enough at brunch. Something that lives in the shadows between the mimosas and the group photos. Something that every woman, from the boardroom to the backcountry, knows intimately.
You know the dance. You know the math.
The Pee Dance.
And if you’ll excuse me, I’ve been writing this for twenty minutes, and I’ve had three cups of tea. girl need to pee
You’re driving. You hit a pothole. You regret every life choice that led you to that 24-ounce soda. You turn the radio off because the bass vibrations are now a personal threat. You consider pulling over at a gas station, but the last time you did that, the floor was wet and the toilet paper dispenser was empty. You clench. You pray to the traffic gods for a green light. Let’s talk about something we don’t discuss enough
You’re now in the checkout line. The line is moving slower than molasses. The ping has become a polite knock. You start calculating: How long is the drive home? 12 minutes. Plus unloading the car? 2 minutes. Plus taking off my coat and shoes? 1 minute. You decide you have exactly 15 minutes of runway left. You’re wrong. You know the dance
Sarah