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The time I wet my tutu

August 9, 2010

I’ve blocked out most of the details of this traumatic event. But it happened, and because I’m a full disclosure kind of girl, it’s time for me to tell you about the time I peed my pants in ballet class. Or, my leotard. And tutu.

For some reason, for a while, my parents kept enrolling me in ballet and tap classes. I’m sure I insisted on this torturous punishment, knowing not at all that I was absolutely inept at all forms of dance. Tap was the worst; at least ballet was fakeable for someone as inflexible and untalented as me. This form of dance was OK, I could sort of do the motions to the dances and I enjoyed wearing the leotards and shoes. Mostly I liked the pretty pink ballet bag I got to carry with its own compartment for ballet shoes and ribbons. It was a girly girl thing. I liked it.

One random day, ballet was held at a different studio than our usual one. One I had never been to before. It wasn’t in the basement of the place three minutes from our house that had two total rooms with bars, it was in a strange, huge studio with many many classrooms, about 20 minutes away. We arrived late. Too late for me to ask anyone where the bathroom was and use it. Just finding the classroom itself had been a feat, as Dad had dropped me off and driven away to go occupy himself otherwise for an hour. It was all I could do to make it to the classroom by warm-ups. Miss Jane, our extremely austere instructor, hated lateness. It was unacceptable. If you were late to class, you couldn’t get in at all. Relieving my full bladder would have to wait.

As we started to get into the meat of the class, practicing the Mr. Sandman dance in earnest, the giant glass of grape juice before class was starting to seem like a very, very bad idea. I know that instead of doing the step ball change and 5th position pliées, I was doing the “I have to pee and I’m going to cross my legs a lot” dance. I got some strange looks from my fellow classmates, and Miss Jane, but I couldn’t leave the class. Even if I did, I had no clue where the bathroom was.

And Miss Jane was so scary.

I made it through a few routines. It was time to audition for the solo part of the dance.

Now, I don’t mean to brag here, but I had been practicing this part that we had learned the week before. It involved a very pre-Pulp Fiction move of dragging the fingers by the eyes, and putting your hands on top of each other in a sleepy pose, while looking adorable. There were a few spins, and a jump at the end in third position.

I totally had this.

A few girls went up before me, but they botched the moves and their acting of the “bring me a dream” line was hardly as enthusiastic as mine. I couldn’t wait to show Miss Jane that I wasn’t a ballet failure.

Three girls left. Good grief I had to pee. OK. Two girls. Yay! MY TURN.

I walked up to the front of the room, in front of Miss Jane and the rest of the class. I took a deep breath as the music started.

“Bum bum bum ba bum bum bum bum….” Finger snaps. Piece of cake.

I went into the first half of the solo and executed everything perfectly. My bladder was really, really letting me know it was full and unhappy but I tried to ignore it, focusing all my attention on the leap at the end.

Leap? Perfect.

Bladder control? Fail.

As sometimes happens to little girls, or so I tell myself, my tiny bladder just couldn’t do it anymore. I should have visited the restroom approximately 38 minutes before this point, but I was both lazy and afraid of Miss Jane. Bladder = exploded. ALL over the place. Through the holes in my tulle tutu. Through the leotard. Everywhere.

Reflected in every single mirror.

Unfortunate. It looked like a race horse had been let into the studio.

Panicked, I tried to find a quick defense. I started to scream to the class “IT’S ONLY WATER. IT’S ONLY WATER!” Why on God’s green Earth I thought it was plausible that a deluge of water spontaneously released itself from somewhere on my person is beyond me. I cannot even rationalize this logic, but as I started to cry and looked at Miss Jane, who was angrily pointing her French finger toward the door, it was all I could repeat. A sad, tutu-wetter’s mantra.

“Only water. Only water! It’s not even pee, it’s just water! No big deal, just water….water water water. Totally normal. Jusssst water…”

I ran down the hall and did not return to class. I’m not really sure what I did instead, because the lesson could not have been more than half over. I wonder if I joined another class, or just hid in the bathroom until it was time for Dad to pick me up. I seem to remember standing under a hand drier for a while, but I know I did not return to Miss Jane’s room in the strange studio, and I’m pretty sure I quit ballet shortly thereafter.

Seriously though guys? I’m able to tell you this horrifying, scarring story, because I didn’t really pee my tutu.

It was only water.

One Comment leave one →
  1. August 10, 2010 10:26 am

    That drawing is perfection. Don’t feel bad, there are plenty of 25-year-olds who still pee their pants after a few beers.

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