More Like an Old Nag

 

I've always heard the saying, "I had to pee like a race horse." So the question is, do race horses pee faster, harder, and more than say, a Clydesdale? It's just another strange saying that really doesn't make any sense. Now, if you said I had to pee like an old man with a somewhat dysfunctional prostate. That would make sense.

Mom's funeral was a week ago. It was a long and emotional day, capped off by a family luncheon at a restaurant near the cemetery. I like that we do that. It helps everybody through the day. Unfortunately, when that day was done I had to drive all the way home alone. From One Hundred and Eleventh Street on the Southside, to Peterson Avenue on the Northside. Oh, and it was now rush hour. It took me two hours to make that trip home. Unfortunately, as I made my way onto Lake Shore Drive by McCormick Place, I felt a soft urging from my bladder. I'm fine, I thought. I can make it home. My bladder and the rush hour traffic through downtown Chicago said otherwise. What had been a slow buildup of pressure had become unbearable by the time I reached the north end of Lake Shore Drive. I weighed my options. Option one, pull over into the median where the radar cop usually sits, and pee in the bushes. I felt that would be too dangerous, so I continued on. My next option was to stop at a gas station along Peterson, but as badly as I had to go, peeing in my pants seemed a better idea than a gas station bathroom. By the time I made the turn into our alley and hit the garage door opener, I could taste pee. There was only one option left. Because I knew I wouldn't make it up the stairs and past the greeting dogs in time, I peed in a bucket in the garage. That's when I thought of the old saying about race horses.