I am a grown man.
I cannot, however, dress myself.
I learned this today as I stood before a urinal at work, preparing to, as the kids like to say, do No. 1, when I noticed a bit of a problem – my undergarments were on backwards. Oh, of course, I didn’t discover this immediately. I fumbled around down there for a bit, unable to find the open fly thinking that my shirt was merely hanging low and blocking access.
After 10-15 seconds of this, though, I reconsidered, mainly because a) to a curious onlooker, it most certainly like something else was going on at that urinal; and b) I really, really needed to pee.
I intensified the search and soon discovered the back-to-the-front dilemma. Well, to be perfectly honest, my initial reaction was that somehow the fly to my boxers had mysteriously sewn itself shut, so I checked the waist band for confirmation. Sure enough, there was a tag, meaning I am a complete idiot.
My options were pretty much limited to three scenarios:
• Step inside The Stall and quickly remedy the situation by redressing myself. This seemed like an easy enough option, until I considered the chance that a co-worker might walk in and wonder what reason I could possibly have for my pants being around my ankles while I stand in The Stall a few feet away from the toilet.
• Drop my trousers and undertrousers to my knees, hoist my shirt and pee while standing bare-arsed to the rest of the restroom. Again, this is not something I want my co-workers to see. I’m fairly new at the job, and I don’t want to be labeled as The Guy Who Pees Weird. Really, if you ever walk into a men’s room and see a guy standing at a urinal like that, just turn around and come back later. Much later. You want no part of that.
This left just one choice:
• Slide a side of the boxers up my thigh and start freeing things that way.
This is easier than it sounds. First, I was working through the fly of my trousers, so there was limited space available to maneuver. I had to do all the reshuffling and redistribution in a confined space, making me feel somewhat like Houdini.
A really dumb Houdini.
A really dumb Houdini who had to pee.
A really dumb Houdini who had to pee and had his boxers on backwards.
So, essentially, I was nothing like Houdini.
Finally, I got the edge of the boxers up high enough to begin, well, other maneuvering.
And all of this had to be done just millimeters from zipper teeth.
Dark, painful visions of franks, beans and There’s Something About Mary ran through my head, but I tried my best to clear my thoughts and get to the task at hand. But the more I worried, the more I feared what was to happen, so, ultimately, I just kind of had to follow the John Daly golf swing advice: grip it and rip it.
What followed does not need to be detailed, other than to say there was much pinching and pulling, shrieking and eye watering.
I think I would have preferred a catheter.