There are few things more awkward than attending The Grand Champagne Tasting Event at The Plaza Hotel in New York City – pregnant. Of course I know I’m spitting, but it’s a peculiar feeling to have a 5-million-watt spotlight follow you, the only pregnant lady, around the tasting room floor with every pair of eyes in the joint locked on your mouth. Bystanders holding their breath anticipating my spit – and letting out a collective sigh of relief when I finally do.
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This is what they shined on me from the balcony.
Devin and I left the Champagne tasting after sipping (and spitting – me, not Devin) some terribly expensive champagnes and some ridiculously delicious champagnes. I was exhausted thanks to the few stray bubbles that did make their way down my throat and Devin was carrying the slightly buzzed, giggly, fast-talking load for the both of us. We were unequally yoked. But we were still in our element – departing the Plaza where we felt we legitimately belonged on a daily basis, cruising by the CBS Studios and casually waving at the production team inside as if we knew them all personally. They didn’t know it yet, but they’d be featuring us as soon as we became household names. So we waved “hi” and moved along 59th St. back toward the wine store.

I realized about 2 blocks into our walk that I should have used the ladies room at The Plaza. But I didn’t. And I should have.

Suddenly, 1 of 2 things happened. I had either just a) been teleported to the Central Park Spray Ground and my son, Max, had just nailed me square in the crotch with one of his water grenades, or b) I had just lost all control of my bladder (and any form of kegel I had picked up on over the years) unleashing a urinary explosion equivalent to rushing river rapids roaring down the legs of my pants. Right there on the corner of 61st and Madison. Not an ideal spot to pee your pants accidentally, or purposeful, actually, right next door to Barneys.

It happened so fast. I sneezed, I peed, I grabbed Devin’s arm, whipping her backward and firmly planting her right in front of me. I reached my left hand around to confirm how severe the damage. My jeans were soaked.

“Devin, I just peed my pants.”

“No you didn’t. Are you sure?”

“Devin, this used to happen to me. I know I peed my pants.”

“Lady, you’re 30 – you’ve dealt with this before? Turn around, lemme see.”

(I slowly turned around as all the corporate suits and ties pass by. Surely they could smell me.)

“OH MY GOD you peed your pants.”

“We’ve gotta get a cab, D.”

“We’re 5 blocks from the store! Turn around again. Yeah, we’ve gotta get a cab.”

Devin and I scurried to the corner, me holding my gigantic purse over my butt and definitely doing the wet-jeans shuffle.

We flagged the first cab we saw, even though it was headed in the wrong direction. I flung open the cab door to dive in and slide across the seat – when I suddenly realized I’d be leaving a warm, pee trail for my friend to then slide through. I immediately jumped back and we exchanged quick nods simultaneously like, “Um, yeah – thanks” and “Uh, sorry – you first.”

My jeans were sticking to my thighs. I rummaged through my purse for anything I could spritz into the air – the air I was rapidly polluting. We rolled down the windows and laughed so hard I was nervous it was going to happen all over again.

We got back to the store and I swear I’ve never exited a cab faster in my life. Of course I had zero cash to pay for this $4, 5 block cab ride and neither did Devin. So she used her credit card. Which slowed our hasty getaway and required me to sit half a second longer in my puddle – now permeating the black vinyl seat.

I raced from the cab to the store before any dog passers-by mistook my leg for a lamp post and marked their territory the way they do.

This, I announced to Devin, had definitely been more awkward than attending the Champagne Tasting pregnant.
 


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