I was 30 the last time I peed my pants. This was the 2010's. It was after hanging out with friends somewhere in the center part of the city I lived in—maybe thirty minutes walk from my apartment. The place was a mexican place—it had burritos and tacos and things like that. Ranchero music and a salsa bar. A big selection of Jarritos.

Throughout my recent adult life, I’ve managed to never go more than two hours without pissing. There are several reasons for this, including drinking 200 ounces of water a day in an effort to stay hydrated and prevent kidney stones. When you never go 3 hours without pissing, your body develops a natural rhythm. I am an all hours of the day pissing regular.

On this fateful day, I did not use a bathroom before beginning my walk. I did not factor this information into my plans.

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That night I was wearing an oxford shirt and dress pants. A brown color I’ll never forget.

I shirked the urge to pee all evening. I skipped the short bathroom line because I did not have to pee at that exact moment.

I don’t know why I didn’t just pee in the toilet of the Mexican restaurant. I should have. But I did not.

Walking home, I had the urge to pee. But there were too many people around, people walking in both directions. The city I live in is a semi-suburban city, without useful alleyways and dark corners. I kept putting it off, walking as fast I could toward my apartment, trying to distract myself. Public urination is a sex crime in my state. I had to walk by a heavily policed hospital. I began to run as fast as I could, hoping I could make it the remaining three-quarter-mile distance. After two minutes, I knew it was futile.

I slowed to a walk and just peed my pants.

I felt a large wave of relief and ignored people walking in my direction who could see what I had done.

That was the last time I peed my pants.