True Story Tuesday - Gentleman, Rev Your Bladders

It's been quite a while since I've regaled my readers with a True Story Tuesday. I decided that it was high time, and to usher in the event, I needed something worthy. While most of my true stories are widely known among my circle of real life friends and family, today's is not. And I may regret posting it.

As a longtime (nearly native) Charlottean, NASCAR is as much a part of daily life as is a Diet Coke (or three). While not a fan myself, I have always stayed abreast of driver standings, race results and more, less by choice and more by osmosis, but whatevs.

This particular event takes place during my senior year of high school. Ever the wonderful girlfriend, I ignored my own distaste for the "sport" and surprised my then-boyfriend with tickets to the Coca-Cola 600. By the time raceday dawned, I was actually looking forward to what I deemed to be a cultural experience.

Wearing a classy, but NASCAR appropriate, outfit we headed off to Concord for the automotive spectacular. While I am no stranger to race traffic, I was unprepared for just how long we would be sitting in the long line approaching the speedway, and fearful of heat stroke on the May afternoon, I was overly hydrated. Unfortunately, there was no turn off or way to reach a commode, so I sat in the driver's seat squirming and performing my potty dance.

About half an hour later we had moved merely inches, and my bladder was urging me to tinkle. Unwilling to give in, I cranked "Sweet Child o' Mine" and "Devil Went Down to Georgia" (fitting for a trip to a NASCAR race, methinks) and ignored the urge to purge (the bladder).

Another thirty minutes passed, and the situation was nearing critical mass. Still miles from the Speedway, the diagnosis was that I needed to urinate. And soon. I considered my options. There were few. As it so happened I was wearing a denim skirt at the time, and in a moment of sheer desperation reached into the backseat and grabbed the only thing I could find. A red, plastic party cup (huge thanks to my brother, with whom I shared our Mazda Milennia and who happened to have the contraband item in the vehicle).

Apparently I forgot that I was a girl and, as such, lacked the necessary equipment used to "aim" the stream. Undeterred, I decided that peeing in a cup was not only a stroke of genius but the only thing I could do. Wanting to stay a lady, however, I didn't want anyone to see what acrobatics I was attempting to perform in the front seat. Without going into much detail, I will say that my plan failed. Miserably. I spent the remainder of the voyage to the parking lot keeping myself lifted well above the "situation" that had "leaked" into my seat.

Huge props again to my brother who had some old swim towels rotting in our trunk allowing me to clean up the unfortunate incident when we finally arrived at our destination. I also, luckily, had a pair of shorts stashed in the car and was able to lose the... umm... saturated garments I was wearing. You know, thinking back on it now, I assumed that I would have nothing in common with the other fans cheering for the cars as they went round-and-round that day, but somehow, I don't think I was too far off.