There is this song I like. It’s from the Netflix show “#blackAF” It’s called “Win” and it’s by Jay Rock. The lyrics I like are just him saying, “Win! Win! Win! Win!”
I like this song because:
- It’s cool
- It describes some intricate part of myself to myself
- It’s very American
There is another line that says, “You are either with me or you dis me, ho!” I like this line because I’m a feminist. So, obviously, I just quickly reclaim the word “ho” and use it to describe closed-minded men in either restrictive political systems or fraternities at elite schools. I have known many hoes in my life. Some of them are running countries as we speak. Oh snap.
I’m 37 years old. I’m a woman. Everyone wants me to be pregnant. The general narrative of this time of my life is: you should be having kids and you should be having them biologically.
I’m too tired to resist this part of my culture. And also, I really like kids and enjoy the Montessori model of child development.
Okay, so you’ve got all that.
The problem is that I have some mysterious disorder in addition to my known disorders that prevents me from achieving pregnancy. So, I am not “WIN! WIN! WIN! Winning.”
I have felt for the last two years kind of like a giant loser. This may be because the president of this country I know about sees the world as losers and winners. I don’t believe in this unless you are literally in a game of sports where there are actual winners and losers.
And, to that point, I used to play lacrosse and I was really good and I love field sports so I have a lot of memories of winning. I just don’t buy into the metaphor for people. We are humans. Beautiful, flawed, complicated. Not losers. Not winners. We are systems of molecular biology tango stepping through our lives, yelling at one another at gas stations or outside the doors to our homes or maybe we are kissing at night, inside little jungles of light where we can hardly see each others’ eyes. We are:
dove cries of loneliness
wild minds racing.
So. Let’s turn it back on over to the main narrative stream.
I have two symptoms of a pregnant person:
- I have gained 10 pounds (it looks exactly like a mama belly, please don’t say bump. I will vomit, on purpose, all over your Mercedes Benz if you say bump. Please don’t talk about celebrities. Please put the paparazzi out of their jobs. The market works because there is demand. Don’t care about fame or fortune. Believe in something bigger. Like silence. Like night time. Like the moon. Like the astronauts out there all alone, coming home now from the moon. Was alone. Is now alone. Will be alone during quarantine. Calculating a way to turn loneliness into solitude. All the charts and graphs and maps of the world and all we need to do is look up to the planets to see how connected we are all done here on Earth.)
- Sometimes while running I’m just like, oh okay, that’s cool: I’m peeing.
So, this is what I want to talk about today. Bathroom habits.
I think I have some kind of Freudian obsession with bathroom habits because a lot of my writing centers on piss and shit.
Why is this? I don’t know.
- Hollywood teaches many bizarre things in their movies. One of them: women have to pretend they don’t eat or shit. I find this disturbing.
- Bathroom jokes are funny and kind of beautifully innocent. I really like it when kids make jokes about farts. In my white, middle class, American-British culture, growing up there was this rule: don’t talk about farts. Whatever you do: do not talk about farts.
- Because I don’t have a regular job and because I don’t have a corporate sponsor for this blog, I can write about whatever I want and change my “brand” week to week (or even mid-blog post!), so I like the freedom of being able to discuss the fact that an intrical part of long distance running involves balancing how much water you drink with how much water you piss. Last year’s half marathon included a trip to the loo for me. This added four minutes to my time. This put me over two hours. I don’t really care about the time, but it is interesting to me that while planning for a race, I have to think strategically about urine.
The only solution I have to this problem is actual medical attention, but come on, I’m an American. My health insurance is like dating someone who is trying to head-f*** you into believe you are less than worthy of all things glorious. Therefore, instead of actually going to, oh I don’t know, a UROLOGIST, I
I buy pads that are made for pee. These things are great. Giant diapers. Four inches thick. Beautiful! Just beautiful. The packaging shows the white underwear, bum of a white woman who reminds me of your boring Pottery Barn friend who has named her children and her crazy golden retriever all “Kelsey” or some other totally inappropriate, Irish dog name*
*here’s a little advice, if you’ve made it this far. Name animals short names that sound like gut sounds, rather than mythical elf names. Name pets things like “DONUT” or “GUNSHOT” or “DUG JENK.”) The animal identifies with this. Like, “Aha! I am STINKO! When they stay STINKO they mean me. I am STINKO!” . There is no credible scientific research to this, but it is from my own experience. I have also observed that there is a point in a family’s lives where they have to walk their dog while also having just had a baby and they look absolutely exhausted by this thought. Therefore, if you are a 25 years old human right now, be really cautious about getting a dog during your child-bearing years. And if you do get a dog, please name them something beastly.
Where was I?
I have no idea. I feel like this is sounding angry, when I was trying to be funny. I feel like you aren’t going to adopt that rescue dog now. Man, maybe you should. Or, maybe you should adopt part of your highway. I don’t know. There are lots of choices in this world.
I’ve had a lot of coffee today because I got to be interviewed by this cool friend I have who actually is pregnant. I feel very happy for actually pregnant people.
I also feel nervous for them too because I am in the adoption process and I want to make sure that women who are pregnant but don’t want to be mothers in the traditional sense, and they don’t want the psychological toll of an abortion or it’s too late or whatever the situation, I want them to know that there are so many good options. I hope I can adopt a baby and also feel connected to a woman, and possibly a man, who has just made a harder decision than anything political. The decision to carry a baby to term and birth them and then sign a contract with strangers who will raise that baby into their own child: well, wow. Total wow. This actually happens. Like daily. The world is a beautiful place.
This is the point: I’m not perfect (clearly) but I am trying my best, and yet the other day I was hiking and I just started peeing my pants and I was wearing one of those giant diaper things from Mandy Barnett and her dog Finnigan and her kids Collum and Colin and you know what?
It absorbed all my extra h20 and urea.
“Win. Win. Win. Win.”