Via Lilu: ***Alright, folks, you know the rules. Join us all in humiliating the crap out of yourself every Thursday by sharing some completely tasteless, wholly unclassy, “how many readers can I estrange THIS week??” TMI story about your life. Or hell, about someone else’s!***
It was about 4th grade, and my Girl Scout troop was all set to put on a performance at one of the local retirement homes. If memory serves, it was “Goldilocks and the Three Bears”, and I was the narrator. I liked to consider myself the backbone of the show. Goldi who?
In any case, as a veteran performer (have I mentioned how much of a ham I was back in the day?) I ignored one of the cardinal rules (because rules are for suckers and newbies): always use the bathroom before you go on stage.
Goldi had only just discovered the cottage when I discovered that I had to pee. Like any professional, I refused to let it get in the way of the show. Commence potty dance – which consisted of a few shimmies and a couple leg crosses.
To one side I could see the girls in my troop, who probably thought I was a spaz. To the other, I saw the audience of old people, all of whom were probably wondering when interpretive dance got added to the story.
In the end, it was only when I actually felt the tiniest tinkle stream run down my leg that I dropped my script, shouted, “I’ll be right back!”, and booked it to the little girls room.
I was back quickly (I’ve always been a fast pee-er – keep that in mind if I ever ask to cut in the bathroom line) and tried to act like nothing out of the ordinary had happened.
I picked up my script: “Okay, now where were we?”
After all, the show must go on.