Back when I was a sophomore in college, I signed up to be a student adviser. This meant that I’d get assigned seven or eight new freshman whom I could guide in the ways of the world – or at least in the ways of Hopkins. Oh, yeah, and that I’d get to move into my campus-owned apartment early and have two weeks of carefree drinking before I had to worry about classes. But really, it was all about guiding the newbies. Yeah.
One night I was hanging out with two of my friends, Keith and Peter, when they decided it was a good idea to start taking whiskey shots. I tried to talk my way out of it, but they assured me it was a sin to waste Jack Daniels. I only remember taking two shots, but, given the end of the night, I really hope it was more.
photo credit: David Torrence
I thought I was fine (I even remember calling Peter before I went to bed, to make sure he got back to his place okay), but I was wrong. I woke up at some point in the middle of the night – in the stairwell next to my apartment. I was barefoot and in my Lucky Charms pajamas. And my shorts were a wee bit damp. Yes. Damp.
At 19-years-old, I had peed my pants.
But that wasn’t my primary concern – my first thought was how to get back into the apartment. You see, neither of my roommates was around, and I had wandered out without my keys.
I tried several routes. The first one was probably the smartest. There was a window in the stairwell that, even in my haze, I somehow knew was in line with a window in my living room. I had actually raised the stairwell window, peeked my head out, and contemplated whether or not I could shimmy across on the ledge before something (I don’t know what) distracted me. I’m so smart.
Eventually, I managed to get my hands on a phone and call security to come let me back in. As he lectured me on forgetting my keys, I tried to cross my legs and pull my nightshirt down to my knees in order to hide the wet spot. Once inside, I vowed to never tell *this* part of the story. I would tell how I tried to break into my own apartment (I tried several ways after the window), but NEVER how I pissed myself.
The next morning, walking down the stairs to go to adviser training, I saw this sign: “PLEASE DO NOT URINATE IN THE STAIRWELLS!” My friend walking with me laughed, and we both wondered aloud who the jackass was who had peed down the stairs.
Oh, hi, that was me.