I Drank a Gallon of Water a Day for a Week - Here’s What Happened

Introduction

What follows is a work of fiction. All characters, situations, observations, and insinuations are fictitious, coincidental, or accidental. The characters were pulled out of thin air and have nothing in common with any human being who ever lived, nor any zombie or otherwise undead individual. Nothing that happens in this story ever happened to a real person, or ever will. In fact, this story is practically science fiction, except that it’s totally unscientific and doesn’t have spaceships or aliens or anything. That said, any similarity of any character to an actual space alien, past present or future, is (obviously) purely coincidental or conjectural.

I drank a gallon of water every day for a week – here’s what happened

I was casting about for a New Year’s Resolution but nothing was coming to mind. Last year I resolved to dance like nobody’s watching, and I even bought a new Bluetooth speaker, but I found the dancing made me sad, because I live alone and there was nobody to watch me. A one-man dance party doesn’t feel much like self improvement.

So this year I decided to try drinking a gallon of water a day. Supposedly hydration is really important, and after all, what have I got to lose? Because I’m in an apartment building, my water bill is the same no matter what I do.

I thought about buying one of those graduated gallon water bottles with motivational phrases on them—you know, starting at the top with “GOOD MORNING” then “HYDRATE YOURSELF” then “REMEMBER YOUR GOAL,” etc., down to “ALMOST FINISHED” and then finally “YOU DID IT” at the bottom—but then I’m like dang, that’s $25 I’d rather not spend. Plus, I know myself, and I respond better to the whip than the carrot, if you catch my drift. So I washed out an empty gallon milk jug and wrote on it with a sharpie:

7AM GET COFFEE
9AM NO EXCUSES
11AM THIS IS NOTHING
1PM DON’T BE A LOSER
3PM NO PITY PARTY
5PM OOH, BIG MAN
7PM EVERYONE GETS A RIBBON
9PM BIG WHOOP

I set everything out the night before, feeling pretty excited. I hadn’t felt such keen anticipation since I started charging my new Bluetooth speaker at about this time last year.

Day One

At 9am I filled my big jug and then poured about a pint of it into my teakettle. This is the hardest part since there’s some sloshing and trial-and-error involved but I think it’s the genius of my method. See, others who do this drink only out of their $25 graduated jug and drag it around with them, like wearing a badge of honor so everyone will ask about it and they can start taking credit for their awesome resolution in advance. That’s not for me, I don’t need to brag. Plus, I don’t need the ruggedness of the Motivational Bottle … I don’t worry about leaks since I’m mostly at home. When I go out I’ll fill some smaller, more reliable vessel from the main one and then return for refills.

Some say it’s bad to hydrate with coffee but if I gave that up, I’d be doing two New Year’s Resolutions and I don’t want to boil the ocean here. I’m trying to tackle something I can actually achieve, so as to be more compassionate with myself (my Resolution from two years ago that I’m still struggling to keep).

Well, things were going fine until about 11am, when I’d peed so many times I felt like I was wearing out the carpet between my armchair and the toilet. I was peeing so much it seemed like the bowl would be completely full by nightfall. I’m of the “if it’s yellow keep it mellow, if it’s brown wash it down” school, in terms of flushing, except “keep it mellow” never made sense—I mean, what’s non-mellow about flushing? So I think of it as “if it’s brown, flush it down, if it’s jaune leave it alone.” (I am considering putting that on a placard above the toilet, with a little translation of “jaune” from the French.)

Just to divert my mind from the constant awareness of my pestering bladder, I went to the park and sat at my favorite bench for a while, watching life go by, and then this man came up to me, sat down, and said, “Hey, are you one of the dads?” I was like, “No,” and he said, “So you just like sitting and watching kids on a playground?” and I just stared at him, like, isn’t that obvious? He went on to say, “Look, a couple of other parents and I have talked about this and we all agree, we’re gonna have to ask you to leave.” So I shot back, “I was leaving anyway, I have to pee!” I have to admit, it was nice to have a really good comeback for once.

In terms of the more tangible benefits of all this drinking, I have to say that by 9pm, I’d never felt so good. My skin seemed better, I felt stronger in my body, my posture was more erect … even my hair felt better. Totally worth all the peeing.

Day Two

My bladder woke me up from a dream in which I was touring this old Victorian mansion that they’d turned into a museum, and I had to pee (yes, even in my dream) and found this tiny little half-bathroom, but instead of a toilet it just had a little portal to pee into. Halfway through my business the whole room started to move, slowly lowering toward the ground floor, and I realized it wasn’t a bathroom, it was an elevator! Yikes! I was like, “When I reach the next floor, the door’s gonna open and I’d better be finished!” Then I woke up.

The drinking itself was still pretty easy today and I nailed the pour into my teakettle, first try. If anything the constant peeing was even worse, though, and beyond that, by lunchtime I started getting pretty bored of drinking plain water. I’d been warned by drink-a-gallon-a-day websites not to have any sugar, though, because it’d throw off my electrolytes. Then I realized hey, if I make Top Ramen soup and drink the broth, that’s two cups of water right there! So I did that.

Big mistake! OMG, all the salt in that ramen totally bloated me! I should have known! Salt is an electrolyte! I stood in the mirror looking in horror at my bloated (and unfortunately hairy) belly (though not hairy due to drinking water, I hasten to add). I looked kind of like ET. Out of habit, I also scrutinized my face in the mirror, and as I looked closer I realized hey, my eyebrows are looking good! I flicked them with my finger a few times and realized, wow, drinking all this water has totally cured my eyebrow dandruff! Bonus!

All the afternoon water drinking eventually brought down the bloat, and after my final 9pm pint—nailed it!—I was ready for some yoga. I put in my video and (literally) went through the motions. I still can’t even come close to the Yogi Squat, but it’s only the second day of my new hydration regimen.

Day Three

I have hit my stride. The more I drink water now, the more I love it. In fact I doubled up on my 9am pint, drinking a whole quart, and it felt so good. I paid a price, though: I immediately had to pee, and then afterward, the sensation of water on my hands as I washed them made me have to pee again immediately, and for a second it looked like a vicious cycle I’d never break out of.

I went for a little hike and had to pee so bad halfway through. Alas, the outhouse at the trailhead was still at least thirty minutes away, which was like two pees worth, and there were so many hikers! I couldn’t find any privacy! I bushwhacked off-trail for a bit, and then my sneakers lost traction and I slid down into this ravine, and at the bottom I discovered—to my shock and horror—a dead body! It looked like some young adult hiker, halfway claimed by the earth. I scrambled up that slope so fast I couldn’t believe it. Surely my excellent hydration gave me wings. Problem was, just before reaching the trail again I slid on some leaves and tumbled all the way back down there. Then I looked more closely at the body and realized it was just an old shirt tangled around a fallen tree limb. Silly me.

Day Four

Another peeing dream woke me up and for a terrifying moment I thought I’d wet the bed. But I hadn’t … just a little leakage which is totally normal when you drink a gallon of water a day.

In addition to the better skin, relief from back pain, and higher energy, all of which I’d secretly hoped this hydration would give me, I got a big surprise: I got a job! My first in years! It’s selling tickets at the Events Center. The ticket window opens hours before the game and things start off really slow, so peeing wasn’t a problem at first—I’d just put the “BACK IN 5 MINUTES” sign out and go do my business. But once the rush started, no dice. I could not leave my post. It got worse and worse to where people were asking, “Are you okay!?” I guess my face was getting contorted. But then I realized I could just pee in this wastebasket without even getting out of my seat! Don’t worry, the wastebasket has a liner. All the wadded-up paper napkins in there dampen the sound down to almost nothing. I did have to sit pretty far forward in my chair to, well, eclipse everything, but nobody was the wiser.

Now, if you think I’m trying to connect the dots between drinking water and getting a job, I totally am. Those may seem unrelated but if I hadn’t been so hydrated, I wouldn’t have had the confidence to accept the offer.

The health benefits continue. I did an experiment: I looked in the mirror, located a zit, studied my face carefully to remember exactly where it was, drank a pint of water, and then looked again. Sure enough, the zit was gone! Water is like a miracle elixir!

Day Five

Other gallon-a-day blogs had warned me that I’d get bored of drinking water. Well, so far they’re wrong, but you know what is boring? All this peeing! It’s getting so old! Also, even though practice normally improves one’s prowess at practically anything, I seem to be getting worse at not spattering the rim. Either that, or I’m just more observant. I have to mop up the rim pretty much every time now. And my hands are starting to get a bit raw from all that washing, like with OCD people. The rest of my skin is positively glowing from all the water, but for some reason not my hands. I was reading on this one blog about smearing lotion on my hands and then putting on disposable rubber gloves, right before bed, so I’m considering that.

I showed up to work today but nobody was there. I searched everywhere and finally found my supervisor, and it turns out I misunderstood about the job: it’s not a daily thing, but only as needed, when they have a big game and somebody calls in sick. Oh well. I have a small passive income and it’s better to focus on my blogging anyway.

I fell asleep today and had one of those marathon naps where it’s hard to move afterward, so I missed one of my drinking sessions. I chugged a quart after that and was back on track.

Day Six

Not so much to report, actually. Drinking water, even a gallon a day, turns out to not actually be that complicated. One highlight: the hydration is helping my vision. If I really squint, I can read the kitchen clock from the kitchen nook table without my glasses.

Day Seven

This has gone so well, I woke up this morning thinking about continuing my gallon-a-day habit for the whole month, or more. This would give me a good blog topic while continuing to improve my health in umpteen different ways! But I’ve also been thinking a lot about the new Avatar movie, which is over three hours long. I really want to see it in the theater, and I’m sure the crowds have thinned out by now, but there’s no way I could make it through without getting up to pee at least six times. Who knows how many plot points I’d miss. And I’ve been looking forward to this movie for a long, long time.

And that got me thinking that, just like with last year’s dancing, achieving this Resolution is making me a little sad. Why, you may ask? Well, at some point I’ll have reaped all the health benefits, and then I’ll have nothing left to look forward to. So I think after I polish off my last pint tonight, I’ll call it quits, and keep the optimal hydration project in my back pocket for later. It’ll be like my ace-in-the-hole, my Plan B, the card up my sleeve. Next time I’m feeling really low, I’ll just start back up the gallon-a-day, and things will start to get real, real good again!

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Further reading

• New Year’s Resolutions
• One-Size-Fits-All New Year’s Resolution
• New Year’s Resolutions - Dental Hygiene Edition
• New Year’s Resolutions - Let’s Get It Right This Time
• A Wide Net Approach to New Year’s Resolutions
• The DUMB Approach to New Year’s Resolutions

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Ask a Middle-Aged Guy

Dear Middle-Aged Guy,

Why can’t I take a pee without having to endlessly shake?

Tom G, Brooklyn, NY

Dear Timmy G,

Assuming you haven’t always had this problem, it’s likely related to benign prostatic hyperplasia (BPH). You know: prostate enlargement. Essentially the prostate puts pressure on the urethra, which is like stepping on a garden hose. According to this article, BPH can also cause that dribbling at the end, possibly because your bladder just isn’t quite empty even though you think you’re done.

You didn’t ask, but I’ll tell you anyway, how you might deal with this (without resorting to medical intervention). For one, you can just slow down and not try to “pee-‘n’-flee” like a teenager. Another technique is called “urethral milking” which I refuse to try to describe in these pages. Click here for details.

It may be worth noting that the need to shake your unit might only seem like a middle age thing. Maybe as a youngster you just weren’t paying attention to the fact that you were scattering drops of urine all over the bathroom like a priest with his aspergillum. I know for a fact that at the tender age of 17 I was already having trouble with dribbling. I wrote a poem at that time that included these lines: 

Relax, because you’ve earned your potty break;
Unburden your poor bladder of its pee.                       
And when you’re done you’ll shake and shake and shake;
An effort all in vain, it seems to me.
    For urine flow can never really stop,
    Until your undies drink the final drop.

By the way, I’m aware of one other cause of BPH that doesn’t require medical intervention: it can be a side effect of certain cold or allergy medicines. Try going off them, and then decide if sneezing all the time is preferable to dribbling.

Dear Middle-Aged Guy,

I’m only in my forties, but I’d swear my vision is going. I keep thinking the lights are turned down low, but I try the dimmer switch and it’s already all the way up. Everything just seems so damned dim these days! Am I crazy, or could I be getting cataracts already?

Scott W, Phoenix, AZ

Dear Scott,

According to the National Eye Institute, “people can have an age-related cataract in their 40s and 50s. But during middle age, most cataracts are small and do not affect vision.” It’s also possible you have some other issue, like optic neuritis—but don’t take my word for it. I’m not a freakin’ doctor, I’m just a middle-aged guy! Go get an eye exam. (Even if you’re one of those genetic freaks who have 20/20 vision, you should get an exam every year, to screen for glaucoma and other ocular problems.)

Dear Middle-Aged Guy,

I felt grumpy about all my physical infirmities, but then I read about how until relatively recently, the human lifespan was only like forty years. Now I’m just grateful I’m still going strong at forty-six, like I’m defying evolution or something! I guess this isn’t exactly a question, but I thought you and your readers might like to know.

Howard M, Topeka, KS

Hi Howard,

Not to be a dick or anything, but that whole forty-year lifespan notion is kind of bogus. According to this article, the 40-something  life expectancy figure is distorted by the decrease over time in the infant mortality rate, which used to skew the life expectancy significantly downward. With this factored out, the human lifespan has remained largely constant for the last 2,000 years. The ancient Greeks, for example, routinely made it into their seventies (at least, those who achieved adulthood).

This isn’t to say we haven’t made strides in quality of life as we age. I trust your infirmities are well under control and you’re still getting around just fine. Hang in there, Howie!

Dear Middle-Aged Guy,

Why are Brundlefly-like hairs growing like crazy out of my ears and nose these days? It’s unbelievable! I swear I’m wearing out the motor on my electric trimmer!

Daniel W, Bend, OR

Dear Daniel,

What you have observed is the Law of Conservation of Male Hair. Men’s hair can neither be created nor destroyed—only transferred or transformed. This means all the hair that’s disappearing from your forehead has to go somewhere, so it migrates down your back and into your nostrils and ears. It’s completely normal, though also completely annoying.

By the way, you may have noticed your electric trimmer often conks out. It may seem as though it has a short circuit, but actually, it’s just that the blades are getting jammed. Take apart the little blade thingy, rinse it, and then lube the blades up with a little olive oil. It’s like magic!

Dear Middle-Aged Guy,

What exactly does “middle-aged” mean, anyway?

Janet G, Boise, ID

Dear Janet,

I assume you’re looking for something more helpful than the dictionary definition (“the period between early adulthood and old age, usually considered as the years from about 45 to 65”). Middle age is generally considered the time when life stops improving and we start to complain a lot. According to Wikipedia, “Experiencing a sense of mortality, sadness, or loss is common at this age.” On the flip side, according to most middle-aged men Wikipedia is full of shit.

That said, in middle age we men do become more prone to being maudlin, morose, misanthropic, and/or drunk. The Strokes song “On the Other Side” captures all four traits: “I hate them all, I hate them all/ I hate myself for hating them/ So I drink some more, I love them all/ I drink even more/ I hate them even more than I did before.”

So, Janet, if you have a man in your life, make sure he gets plenty of love and not too much booze. One of the researchers in a famous decades-long Harvard study on happiness concluded that six factors predicted healthy ageing: “physical activity, absence of alcohol abuse and smoking, having mature mechanisms to cope with life’s ups and downs, and enjoying both a healthy weight and a stable marriage.”

A few years ago my young daughter asked me, “Daddy, can a person die of middle age?” All I could offer in response was, “I hope not.”

Dear Middle-Aged Guy,

Everybody keeps telling me I need to exercise as I get older, but half the dudes I know end up maiming themselves—torn rotator cuffs, tendonitis, bone fractures, ACL tears, concussions … is it even worth it?

Spencer T, Los Angeles, CA

Dear Spencer,

There’s no simple answer for this, but I have a few opinions. First of all, if you’ve never been particularly fit, this might not be a great time to take up a new sport … the inevitable newbie mishaps can really injure you now whereas a kid or young adult might walk them off. On the flip side, even if you were a crackerjack soccer or basketball player in your youth, that doesn’t mean your body can still handle all those crazy moves. Stick with non-contact sports. Swimming, yoga, biking (if you already know what you’re doing), and hiking would probably be better than, say, hockey or rugby.

Dear Middle-Aged Guy,

People used to say “forty is the new thirty” and now it’s “fifty is the new forty,” etc. How long will this age deflation continue, and when is it time to cry bullshit?

Buck H, Aurora, CO

Dear Buck,

It doesn’t actually matter how you feel, and it doesn’t even matter how you look. All that matters is how you’re perceived. It’s all well and good that my doctor told me, “You’re not old yet—you’re still young.” Who was he to judge? He’s so old he just retired! What really matters is what the young think of us. And they couldn’t care less whether we’re forty vs. fifty vs. sixty. We’re all just old.

You want proof? I was chatting about the different James Bonds with my teenaged kids. My older daughter likes Daniel Craig pretty well, but complained that he’s too old. Ouch! He’s only a year older than I am! And what’s worse, my daughter declared this after seeing “Casino Royale,” which was made when Craig was only 38! I asked her how old Bond ought to be. She said, “I dunno … like, 22?” Unbelievable.

Dear Middle-Aged Guy,

When I was young, my dad couldn’t stand my music—and I’m talking about good, solid bands like the Clash, Depeche Mode, U2, the Police, the Smiths, Talking Heads, etc. He said it was “just noise,” and blah, blah, blah. I swore I would be more open-minded, and, you know, cooler, when I reached my forties. But now I’m just as disdainful of modern music as my dad was. Is this just an inevitable part of ageing?

Tucker L, Minneapolis, MN

Dear Tucker,

It’s not you—it’s them. The bands. Most of them just totally suck! Look, my dad couldn’t stand any of the rock music I liked as a teen, either … he stopped trying out new music when he hit his 20s, which meant he was stuck with The Mommas & The Papas, Joan Baez, and Peter, Paul & Mary. He couldn’t really handle any rippin’ guitars, killer drum solos, or (gasp) profanity. But my problem with modern music is that it’s too weak.

For decades I’ve been listening, on and off, to our local Bay Area alternative station, Live 105. I never loved it but it was okay. But now? They’ve renamed themselves “The New Alt 105” and half the music they play is by these emo weenies who really need to be slapped around. AJR, Twenty One Pilots, Imagine Dragons … even some outfit called Modest Mouse. What kind of name is “Modest Mouse” for a rock band? They’re all shamelessly weak and soft. And when I tour through the radio dial, smacking up against the likes of Maroon 5, I can’t believe how feeble, anodyne, and repetitive most of the music is.

In case you’re wondering if this is just my ossified middle-aged brain talking, my teenagers hate the modern music, too. Their brains are still supple so I trust their judgment … even if they shake their heads at my growing bald spot.

Dear Middle-Aged Guy,

I’m not one of you. I’m a teenager writing in to complain about my dad. He seems to think he’s actually cool, which makes it SO much lamer that he’s totally not. Can you just tell your readers to give it up already? This self-denial is really embarrassing to have to witness!

AA, Albany, CA

Dear AA,

Look, I get it: middle-aged men need to be realistic. But there’s a difference between trying too hard and just throwing in the towel. There is a breed of middle-aged man who is just totally clueless. For example, he may think that anything available from L.L. Bean is automatically a good sartorial choice, even raspberry-sherbet-colored pants. Or he whistles the theme to “Sesame Street” in a public place. He might wear a really nerdy hat—like, it’s the shape of a pith helmet, but is all fabric and miraculously folds up into a little pouch, which actually delights this fellow to the point that he sincerely expects to be admired for it. Or, he’ll decline to update his glasses frames, regardless of any consideration of fashion, to the point that he’s still wearing what Bill Gates gave up on as a relatively young adult.

Look at these two middle-aged men, flirting with the camera, trying to do duck lips (or is it sparrow face?) like a couple of Snapchatting teenagers, little realizing how stupid their glasses (okay, full disclosure: their late father’s glasses) look.

My advice? Cut your dad some slack. Things could be so, so much worse. Let him pretend to have dignity, and when absolutely necessary just coach him a little (for example, stop him if he thinks he’s allowed to use words like “extra” the way teens do).

Dear Middle-Aged Guy,

As the actual end of my life grows ever nearer on the horizon, I find myself frequently lost in reflection. And the thing I ponder the most is: at what point did I realize that it is just much easier to roll over and take it rather than put up a good fight?

“AAA-cell,” Bend, OR

Dear AAA-cell,

First off, I hear you. A sense of futility is, I think, a natural reaction to everything being more difficult than it has ever been before. Certain basic actions—such as trying to fold a fitted sheet, searching in vain for your phone charger, attempting to form a complete sentence without losing track of a key word, or even just sleeping soundly through the night—suddenly seem insurmountable.  Needless to say, the difficult things we’re asked to do—fixing a leaking faucet, writing up career goals for the new year, or mastering  a new enterprise software application—are utterly soul-crushing. (A middle-aged manager of mine fought valiantly against an SAP CRM application, grew increasingly frustrated, and ultimately declared, “Maybe I’ll just resign.” Which he then did.)

All this being said, I challenge your suggestion that there was a specific point at which you gave up. I don’t believe middle age is like a tsunami that suddenly overwhelms us. It’s more like a relentless lapping of waves, all these constant and predictable forces that slap against us again and again. So you probably haven’t actually rolled over, at least not for good. Maybe you’re just temporarily curled up in the fetal position while some big waves crash over you, and then the tide will go out, you’ll cough up a bunch of water, and things will get incrementally easier. At least, that’s what I’m hoping for.

A Middle-Aged Guy is a syndicated journalist whose advice column, “Ask a Middle-Aged Guy,” appears in over 0 blogs worldwide.

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From the Archives - Urination Poetry

Introduction

Once again, it’s a slow news day so I’m taking the opportunity to archive an old work on the mirrored web servers that host this blog.  And in the process I’ll provide the footnotes and commentary that a highly sophisticated literary work like this poem so desperately deserves.

Urination poetry – March 28, 1987

            FOR BOYS ONLY

You have to go so bad that you’re in pain.

Relief’s the only thing that’s on your mind.                     2

But wait, before you get your bladder drained,

A toilet is the one thing you must find.

But actually, seclusion’s all you need.

A tree or shrub will hide you in a pinch.                           6

As long as no one else can view the deed,

To find a place to go is quite a cinch.

Relax, because you’ve earned your potty break;

And go until your bladder’s out of pee.                            10

And when you’re done you’ll shake and shake and shake;

An effort all in vain, it seems to me.

    For urine flow can never really stop,

    Until your undies drink the final drop.                        14

Footnotes & commentary

Title:  For Boys Only

This title just goes to show how little I understood females at age 17.  I probably thought they’d be totally grossed out by the way guys pee.  At this age I’m pretty sure I’d never heard a girl fart, and maybe hadn’t even heard one belch.  This was years before I knew a girl, in college, who was arrested for peeing in an alley.

Line 1:  so bad

An overly pedantic literary type might think I incorrectly used an adjective—bad—where an adverb—badly—was called for.  But that would be wrong.  To say “I have to go so bad” is a colloquialism I will defend to the death.  The only time I’ve said “so badly” is when my brothers and I were young and liked to say, “I have to pee as badly as Bradley.”  Bradley was a kid down the street.  I’m not sure it’s fair to hold him up as someone who had to pee particularly badly, but then we weren’t very fair kids.

Line 3:  get your bladder drained

I find this line alarming today.  Of course you drain your own bladder; this line implies that you’re having it done for you.  I wrote this sonnet long before I’d ever been catheterized or I wouldn’t have been so sloppy.  Of course the line would be better written thus:  “But wait, before your bladder’s finally drained.”

Line 4:  toilet is the one thing

More sloppiness.  I hadn’t really grasped that using a lot of one-syllable words makes the line of iambic pentameter stumble along instead of trotting gracefully.  And the word “must” is just plain wrong, as the reader is about to find out.  I should have written, “There’s something called a toilet you should find.”

Line 7:  the deed

For some reason, my use of “deed” in this line is one of my favorite things about this poem.  Perhaps it’s because it carries with it echoes of some truly great flatulence poetry:  “Whoever smelt it dealt it” and its rejoinder, “Whoever said the rhyme did the crime.”  Yes, peeing is not just something you do.  It is something of consequence that you boldly and deliberately carry out.  It is a deed.

Line 8:  quite a cinch

I hate this line.  Poets should be banned from using the filler word “quite” and the filler phrase “quite a.”  I should have put, “To find a place to urinate’s a cinch” or “to find a place to micturate’s a cinch.”  Now that I think about it, “micturate” is probably funnier than “urinate.”  I don’t know why.  And you know what?  I learned something today while drafting this post:  the noun form of “micturate” is not “micturation” but “micturition.”  Microsoft Word didn’t suggest “micturition” but did flag “micturation” as wrong.  And then, once I corrected it, Word not only un-flagged it, but auto-corrected my next instance of “micturation.”  It’s like artificial intelligence!

Line 9 – potty break

Nobody over the age of ten says “potty” except parents stooping to a young child’s level.  It’s almost as bad as “pee-pee.”  Whoa, check that out!  You want to hear an amazing coincidence?  As I sit here writing this, I’m playing music—every track in my library in alphabetical order—and I just heard Eminem sing, “The way you move it, you make my pee-pee go doing, doing, doing.”  Small world, huh?  (By the way, that “doing” isn’t the gerund form of “to do,” but rhymes with “boing.”  Just in case that was confusing.)

So, yeah, the problem with “potty break” in this poem is that it doesn’t ring true to the way a teenager talks.  Sure, poetry is known for elevated diction, but not this poem.  By this point in my education I was already familiar with Keats’ admonition, “beauty is truth, truth beauty … that is all ye need to know”—and yet I wrote untruthfully here, in a sense, by using language that wasn’t true to my poem.  I could have worked just a bit harder and come up with something much better, like “Relax, because you’ve earned this little break.”

(Should I also criticize Eminem for saying “pee-pee”?  Well, I have to say, the song this line comes from isn’t one of his best.  And this very line earned Eminem some harsh criticism in The New Yorker.  Something tells me he got over it.  Myself, I’m going to let it go ... after all, Eminem was a high school dropout and probably didn’t read Keats until his forties. He was only 36 when he wrote “Ass Like That.”)

Line 10 – bladder’s out of pee

It just makes me wince to read this old stuff.  Bladder’s out of pee?  Like, what else would it be out of?  Grape juice?  Compressed air?  And this line suffers from my old addiction to one-syllable words.  I should have written, “Unburden your poor bladder of its pee.”

Line 14 – undies drink the final drop

Do people still call underwear “undies”?  Doesn’t matter—as a teenager that’s exactly what I called them.  Beauty is truth!  It wasn’t until college that I heard “tight-y whiteys,” referring to briefs, in a derogatory way because of course boxers are the way to go.

(I just did a little extra research via my teenage daughter, who has never heard the term “undies.”  I asked her, “What do today’s teens call men’s underwear?”  She replied, “Boxers?”  I said, “What do you call briefs?”  She replied, “Gross?”  I can see I’m raising her right.  I hope she fully appreciates that guys are gross, period.)

I think the scourge of post-urinal drip is badly underrepresented in poetry, and I’m glad to do my part to right that wrong.  Ideally, this should have been an epic poem, not just a sonnet; that way I could have explored this issue in all its complexity.  How come I can go months without spilling a drop, and then I’ll have this drip problem like three times in a row?  What causes it?  Is it a nervous thing?  Will it get worse with age?  Is it related to why I can’t seem to pee without hitting the toilet rim?  Perhaps one day I’ll have more time and can explore this matter in depth.  Keep an eye out!

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