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Nothing has the power to bring me crashing back to earth faster than pissing my pants in public.

I was feeling pretty good on the day I stood in line at the bank to get some forms signed.  Pretty good until I started coughing at the exact moment the line moved and I stepped forward.

It wasn’t a soaker, but there was definitely a gush and since I had no idea how I looked from the back, I bolted from the line and sped walked home.  Feeling like a moron. A middle-aged moron with a floppy, stretched out bladder.

Why oh why did I push for natural childbirth?  It wasn’t so great and now I piss my pants.  Is this one of those fucked up punishments for being a woman because a million years ago some ignorant chick ate an apple?  You have to admit, that particular decision-maker is one messed up dude.

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A weak bladder hardly seems a fair punishment

“It’s because you have a weak core,” Alice informed me when I called looking for sympathy.

“You’ve got to do something. Get a ben wa ball  or do some kegels.  Because no one loves a grown woman who smells like piss.”

So there I am sitting on the toilet, peeling off my pants, when it suddenly occurs to me:   My weak pelvic core is just a metaphor. For me and all my mental weakness.

Someone gets pissed off at me and I flap around, trying to figure out what I did wrong or justify why I was right.

Something I do doesn’t turn out right and I flap around feeling sorry for myself, berating myself for failing, searching for a hole to climb into.

I say something stupid and question my very existence.

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Where is my core?  The part of me that knows who I am, what my intentions are, what I’m capable of. That part that may sway a bit, but doesn’t bend over or break.

Because I’m breaking all the time, which is really the equivalent of pissing my pants at the bank.

This realization leads me to the sex store in search for the ben wa ball.  The moment I walk into the store, which is located on a really seedy street, where frat boys and crazy people piss in the doorways when the clubs let out  – I can feel the shop worker sizing me up.   This is the kind of thing my core-less brain loves to grab onto.

“Oh my god! He’s looking at me thinking I’m some lame middle aged woman who just read 50 Shades of Gray and is trying to bring some vanilla thrills into her vanilla life.”

I consider leaving, but instead duck behind the giant black dildos trying not to make eye contact.

“Oh my god!” My brain, which has no roots grounding it in reality, starts to yammer. “He assumes I’m hiding because I’ve never been in a sex shop before because I’m a super lame woman who lives alone with her 50 cats.”

So I straighten up and try to move through the isles like I own the place.  Just to prove my point, I hold up and thoughtfully compare a couple of butt plugs.  Hmmm, my facial expression reads, this might just do the trick.

But my attention is immediately diverted to this product called Pussy in a Can.  It is an actual can, filled with this pink substance that when examined from the right angle does indeed look like a younger woman’s un-ruined vagina.  I stick my finger in it. It does feel pretty amazing.  But I admit – total judgement towards a guy who’d buy one.

Finally, I get to the Ben Wa display and select a pair that are on sale with adjustable ball sizes in a “fashionable” pink color.  I take them to the counter.

For just a second, I feel the need to offer an explanation:  “ Ha Ha Ha. These aren’t for me. I have a friend…”

But why lie? “My marriage is certainly not boring, it’s just that I now piss my pants whenever I cough or laugh.”

At the last minute, I come to my senses.  No one needs a fucking explanation. I’m doing this for me and that’s all that matters.  “Screw you, judgmental sex shop worker!”

I give my vagina a little squeeze while paying for my balls. “Here’s to building that strong core.”

What do you do to keep yourself planted?

Please share or like send me a note. Because until these balls start working, I depend on your approval.

Thanks a million

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