Whenever I get nervous, I have to pee, a lot. I pee a lot anyway, or so my friends tell me, but when I’m nervous? Ugh. It’s like pee central. Sometimes, when I’m nervous, I drink. Like when I had beers with that big shot editor over at the Scene. I drank lots of beers so that I wouldn’t care if she thought I was witty and cool, but that exacerbated the fact that, since I was nervous as hell, I had to pee like every five seconds.
Right now, same deal.
When I was in college, the Shill and I had these friends who were determined to spend all St. Patrick’s day drinking and, in order to not be thwarted by that, they put on Depends, and sat with their cooler out on the front stoop of their frat house, and refused to move until… Well, I guess until they passed out, in which case they would not be moving, or until St. Patrick’s day ended. I don’t know. Y’all know me. I probably had three beers and peed on a rock and then went home and went to bed. (I did pee on the Sigma Chi rock and they deserved it. I’d do it again. Gladly. Sober.)
Really, when you think about those guys sitting around all day, willingly, sitting around all day in their own pee, you almost marvel at how much time some of us spent (certainly NOT ME, I swear. Not me. Okay, me a little bit. Fine. Me. Me, me, me) wishing they would let us touch their penises.
Life is strange.
I really hope the inspection goes well, but I am also terrified that it will go well because that means it is really, really happening. For reals.