Men will never know how lucky they are to be able to pee standing upâseriously. There're not many instances in which I would gladly change genders, but the after-movie rush for the bathrooms is one of them. While men seem to constantly be able to file in and out of the bathroom with ease (and there are never lines that spill out and around the corner), we women are forced to stand in a humiliating queue that seems to go on forever. Part of it is obvious: when you can't just open your pants and let fly, it takes longer to do your businessâfor one thing, there's no way you're just going to sit down on the filthy seat, so you either have to squat precariously or take the time to do a thorough wipe down and then put on one of those disposable seat covers. But another part of it is the absolute lack of consideration that some women have for other people. They'll take hours to use the bathroom, no joke, and then hog both sink and mirror beyond the reasonable amount it takes to do a quick one-over and wash your hands.
This phenomenon is much worse after popular movies.
Sucker Punch was pretty terrible. No story, hollow characters, and half-hour periods where almost nothing happens. Well, that's not entirely true, stuff happensâbut it's only fluff, special effects and bad martial arts. I guess I should've known going in that I wouldn't like it, but I wanted to keep an open mind. However, there's not much I could have done: the movie was made for guys. With scantily-clad jailbait running around and performing impossible acts in impossible settings, there's no way I could enjoy it. I don't even like anime, which, if I did, might have saved me.
Needless to say, it being opening night, the theatre was completely packed. Absolutely every seat had someone in it. While the majority were guys, enough of them were able to convince their girlfriends to tag along. Cole, my boyfriend, was no exception. He managed to drag me along with the promise that he'd owe me a favour laterâlike he didn't owe me a ton alreadyâand I agreed, mostly because it was easier than fighting about it.
Seeing as I hadn't had anything to eatâand we were in a long enough line anywaysâI decided to do something I haven't done in forever and buy some popcorn to eat during the movie. Ever since I found out just how much fat is in that stuffâdeceptive, isn't it?âI haven't touched it. (I mean, think of how much real junk food you can eat for the same amount of calories!) Alongside the popcorn came a drinkâhuge and imposing, like those monstrously large dicks that appear in some kinds of genre porn. Little white girl meets giant black destroyerâyou know, that kind of thing. As soon as I brought it back with me into the theatre, Cole looked at it, then at me and grinned.
"You're going to end up wetting the bed if you drink that."
And he was right, too. Only, it wasn't the bed I ended up wetting.
Two hours later and I'd finished everything. All the popcorn, as well as all the drinkânot even the melted coke-flavoured ice cubes remained. My poor bladder was swollen so I felt like it would burst.
"Well, what'd you think," he asked, grinning. "Did you enjoy?"
"It was all right."
Thinking about nothing but my bladder, I pressed nervously against him, like it would somehow force the mass of people slowly making their way out of the theatre go faster. We were in the middle, not the top, thank god, but there were still half the people below us, all the people in the aisle in front of us, and a few pushers from the top who managed to jump ahead in line. I knew that it would be close. If everything continued at the rate it was going, I'd barely make it to the bathroom. Maybe even see the inside of a stall. But if something happenedâsomeone stopped to chat, or there was already a line, I was toast.
"Just all right," Cole persisted, and at that moment I wanted to hit him. And he must've seen it on my face, the tight desperation that no doubt made me look pained, grimacing and squinting my eyes, shuffling my weight from foot to foot, for he said, "Hey, babe. You okay?"
Typical: there I was, needing to pee so bad that I would, had there been fewer people around, probably popped the top of my cup and squatted down right there beside him, and he's asking me if I'm all right. I mean, do I look all right, Cole? Then again, how are you supposed to tell your thick-headed boyfriend that you're bladder's about to explode and you're about to soak the seat of your faded jeansâand make a spectacle out of both of you by crying and running out of there with your hands pressed tightly between your legs. Feel like cleaning my pee off of your seat, Cole?
"Fine," hissed through a chewed lower lip, "Just need to pee, that's all."
"That's all?" accompanied by an it's-just-one-of-those-girl-problem chuckles. "That's all?" Taking my hand, he cried, in mock gallantry, "Out of the way, knaves, my princess has to pee!"
He began to force his way through the grumbling, protesting crowd, dragging me behind him.
Mortified, and more than a little scared that the jarring footsteps necessitated by his quick pace would cause me to prematurely lose control, we actually made pretty good time and got out of there a lot faster than if I hadn't said anything. Cole, for all his faults, is pretty good at pushing meâsometimes quite literallyâand getting me to speak up for myself when I have a problem. That's part of what I love about him. Seeing the bright lights outside the theatre lobby, though, I think I might have loved him even if he were old, fat, and ugly. I was sure that my bladder problems would soon be resolved, and then we could really get into talking about the movie on the drive home. But I was wrong.
Immediately visible upon exiting was the line. Dreaded, terrifying, the worst nightmare of every woman with a full bladder (and some, I suppose, with full bowels too; there's no limit to what some women will do in public bathrooms; and just thinking about it makes me shudder), it stretched out of the S-shaped bathroom entrance, around the corner and out into the lobby, obscuring the doors of the theatre directly adjacent to ours. Judging from the women I could see outside, four blondes and one brunette,âthere's a disproportionate amount of blondes living in Guelphâthere were probably close to fifteen people waiting for a turn.