Meanwhile, over in Japan where my Asian doppelganger apparently prefers blue cardigans and pumps...
One thing nobody prepared me for was the weak bladder. I mean, sure, I knew that pregnant women have to go pee a lot, but here I am 3+ years later, no longer pregnant but still having to pee. A lot. You, too, right? I mean, is this just me? Anybody read this in What to Expect When You're No Longer Expecting But Expect You Might Have to Pee Because You Recklessly Took a Small Ladylike Sip Of Iced Tea?
Okay, so I haven't lifted my skirt to pee in a crosswalk. Yet. But I cannot tell you how many times I have thought of the animals--the animals!--and gotten jealous that they can just go wherever they want. And here I am wearing button fly jeans on a street with no toilets. Or large trees. Restrooms for Restaurant Patrons Only, and so I put on my blithe face, the one that I secretly hope looks a little like Gwyneth Paltrow because that is her middle name, and I walk through the restaurant as if I have just finished my meal and left a very large tip.
I don't mean to scare any pregnant readers out there, but there are simply things that you don't get back. Boobs, Schmoobs, Hot Dog Down a Hallway, Schmot Schog Schown a Schallway. My boobs are fine and my vagina intact, that is not what I am talking about at all. It's my bladder, and the fact that my three year old daughter wearing Hello Kitty undies seems to have better control than I do. This is the beginning of it all, I'm afraid. Me passing the torch of womanhood down to her. It begins with the bladder, my sexy young bladder, here! I say, and she grabs it and runs. But what is next? My breasts, my belly, my legs, my what? My bladder for a baby, and you just know she doesn't appreciate it.