Mind Over Bladder

Having a girlfriend with a bladder the size of a walnut puts men in awkward positions. I love mine to death (I should rephrase that. Knowing my luck, something fucked up will happen to her, and a Podunk detective with too much CSI and THE FIRST 48 on his TiVo will find what I wrote. Hilarity WILL NOT ensue.), but I watch her liquid intake like a parent who hasn't discovered rubber sheets yet. She spends half her life dehydrated and the other half sneaking drinks out of restroom faucets when she has one of the ten daily bathroom breaks. Meanwhile, I can't figure out where all this pee's coming from so I tighten my grip on the water supply. It's a vicious cycle.
Despite what my court appointed therapist says, this has nothing to do with me trying to control every facet of her life. It's more a pattern of inopportune moments. For instance, when we go to the local burger joint, she cuts a path to the ladies' room instantly. And it's not like I'm STARVING, but now I've been put into the default position of standing by myself, looking like a moron.

Fast food eateries don't have much dead space on the floor. Either you're waiting to order, ordering, waiting FOR your order, sitting and eating your order, or leaving in an orderly fashion. Nothing in the franchise plan mentions an area for schmucks like myself who are stuck like dogs outside a variery store waiting for our owners to come pick up as soon as they're done taking their sweet ass time getting a pack of smokes and a couple scratch tickets. Least you could do is bring me a fucking Slim Jim. Unless we're back to talking about the bathrooms. Don't expect me to eat anything you find in there.

When I brought up the problem, she asked:

"Why don't you go in the men's room if it makes you so uncomfortable?"

Fantastic idea. As if it's not conspicuous enough to be leaning up against the wall of TACO BELL like a coyote waiting for potential Spaniards to smuggle, standing in the bathroom when I have no bathroomly duties to perform sets off alarms faster than Buddhist protesters in a smoke detector store. I might be able to get away with it in highway rest area (a wonderful place to make friends if you're not as deathly afraid of herpes), but not there.

Thank God for my cell phone. I pull it out of my pocket and make a few deliberate-looking motions with my fingers, shaking my head as if thinking, "Why did the children's hospital schedule me to do an open heart surgery on a Wednesday afternoon? Don't they know it's quesadilla date day with my supermodel girlfriend?"

Good thing that's not true. If it were, and a child's life depends on my girl getting out of the bathroom in a timely manner, Little Sally's a goner.