"Can I use the bathroom?"

We all have fond memories of our childhood, whether it’s learning to
ride a bike, a first kiss, or family vacations. Childhood is the
happiest time of most people’s lives. Some memories, however, are not
quite as pleasant. One traumatic experience has left a permanent stain
on my otherwise wonderful childhood. What I’m referring to is the time
I peed my pants in the first grade.

It was about a decade and a half ago, in 1999. I was a young,
wide-eyed six-year-old. That particular day, my first grade class was
in gym. Mr. V, our gym teacher, was teaching us the fine art of
dodgeball. Mr. V was a tall man who reminded me of a wooden
two-by-four. His back was always completely straight, he had broad
shoulders, and I don’t think I ever saw him bend his knees even once.
If I didn't know any better, I might have thought he had a long steel
pole strapped to his back.

Anyway, I was playing especially well that day. I remember hitting my
friend Joey square in the face, and catching a ball that another
person threw at me. I felt untouchable. Unfortunately, Mother Nature
cares not for how in the zone one might be in a game of dodgeball. I
suddenly had to sue the little boys’ room, but it wasn't an emergency
so I continued to play. After a few minutes, though, I knew I had
better get to the bathroom. I called a time-out (which didn't stop
Joey from trying to get payback for earlier), and approached Mr. V.

“Can I use the bathroom?” I asked.

He didn't respond, so I asked again.

“Mr. V, can I go use the bathroom?”

“Huh!?” he yelled back, “Oh, yeah, go ahead.”

His upper lip was coated in sweat and the vein on his beet-red
forehead was throbbing dangerously.

So I left the gymnasium and stepped into the hallway. I was exhausted
so I made a bee-line for the water bubbler. The cold water was
extremely refreshing, but it also reminded me of why I left the gym in
the first place.

I continued on my way to the bathroom, when I ran into my older
cousin, a 7th grader. He stopped me to ask why I was in the hall, and
we got to chatting for a couple minutes. I might have seemed fine on
the surface to my cousin, but inside I was in anguish. I had to cut
the conversation short and continue on my way. There was a sense of
urgency in my step now. Things hadn't reached a boiling point yet
though, so I may have been in a rush but I wasn't too worried.

There it was! The old, wooden bathroom door had finally come into
sight. I was close enough to read the sign that said “BOYS/NINOS.” I
had never been so happy to inhale the suffocating odor of urinal
cakes. I thought I was home free when I looked down and noticed that
one of my Nikes was untied. “Don’t want to trip,” I thought, so I bent
down to tie the laces.

I got down on one knee and struggled to remember the rhyme about bunny
ears and loop-de-loops. I finally got the laces tied when I suddenly
felt a pleasant warmth spread through my trousers. At first, I thought
I was imagining things. Then, the horrible reality set in.

“Oh God. No. Please, no!” I pleaded with nobody in particular. I ran
into the bathroom and surveyed the damage in the mirror. Why did I
choose that day, of all days, to wear khakis? There was no way to hide
it. This was surely the end of my social life. Another kid had an
accident a few weeks earlier and he still sat alone at lunch. I was
doomed.

I decided to face the music and head back to the gym. I ran over to
Mr. V and asked to go to the nurse. He looked at the wet spot and
yelped, “Oh jeez!” Great. Just great.

The nurse called my mom to come get me. Maybe I would escape without
anyone seeing me after all! And then, she told me to go get my stuff
from my classroom. She couldn't be serious. I managed to get out with
my life and here she was, throwing me back to the wolves.

Helpless, I went to my classroom. My friends were back from gym, so I
had to walk past them all. I stared straight ahead, eyes slowly
watering up, lip quivering like Michael J. Fox in a vibrating chair.
Strangely, no one had said anything yet. I grabbed my coat, tied it
around my waist, and held my backpack squarely in front of me. My
teacher asked where I was going but I did not reply. I just kept
walking, hearing her futile cries follow me out in the hallway.

I closed the door behind me, waiting for the class to erupt in
laughter. A few seconds went by and I didn't hear anything. Could it
be? Was it possible? Had I gone into the midst of a pack of rabid
schoolchildren and escaped unscathed? It was unheard of. I imagine it
to be similar to jumping in a shark tank covered in fish guts and
getting out without a scratch.

My mom arrived and I quickly changed and stuffed the incriminating
evidence into a plastic bag. So I guess I beat the system. Middle
school would not claim me as a victim that day. I would not be made
into a social pariah. I would become just another statistic. At least
not until a couple weeks later when I accidentally took off my shirt
in the middle of class. You can’t win them all, right?