His rule of the road is legendary, which is why we might be seen traveling in separate cars, much like a caravan, when traveling to any destination farther than fifty miles away. On one such recent weekender, the ex, a friend and I had decided to take a walk on the wild side and drive to Connecticut in one car. We should have known better.

 

We have a system from which we do not deviate. Young Sandra picks up the ex at exactly 4:30 am. They arrive at my house promptly at 4:47, allowing for time to fill the trunk with the ex's gigantic suitcase for our overnight visit. I am to be standing outside like a tramp under the street light waiting to be picked up.

 

I need my morning coffee. I crave caffeine in the morning and am not a happy camper until I have soothed the savage beast with a cup of Joe. Standing outside at 4:40 am in the cold dark drizzle (I like to be a little early) is not my idea of travel elegance; hence I contrived a way to sneak a cup of coffee on board. I put it in my pocket.

 

At exactly 4:47 am headlights appeared at the end of the street. I get so jacked up about these stupid rules, I thought I had to pee already, but turns out it was a false alarm. Greetings were exchanged with a couple of grunts and grumbles, and we were off.

 

I had successfully managed to fake a cough a few times, covertly bringing my coat pocket up to cover my mouth as I grabbed a quick sip. So far so good. As we hopped on I-495 at the speed of light however, things went downhill. A large pot hole appeared where there had never been one before. We hit that hole like a bullet and that's about the time my bladder started talking to me.

 

My pal had long ago figured out my deception, and the more I wiggled, the more she smiled. I knew I had to come up with something absolutely brilliant to convince the ex to stop, so I nonchalantly asked my friend if she was over her bout with diarrhea, thinking she'd take the hint. She smiled and said, "Oh, I'm fine now."

 

By the time we reached 290, I feet were tingling from keeping my knees being slammed together for the past hour and a half. It didn't help when we flew by a flatbed hauling a Blow Bros. porta-potty. I had developed a bad case of heartburn, probably from an expanded bladder rubbing up against my tonsils. I think even my "good friend" was beginning to worry about me.

 

By the time we approached I-395, it was clear I was in urinary distress. The ex must have finally realized that something was in the wind, because I swear he looked like he was enjoying himself. He asked us if any one would like a cup of cough-ee. Since we had made such good time, he guessed we could hit the rest stop a few miles up the road.

 

"How many miles?" I squeaked from between clenched teeth. "Oh, about ten." He replied. Mother of God, I thought. I made a note never again to get in a car with a cup of coffee and without an adult diaper.

 

The rest stop came and went because there was a better one a little further down. That's when I blew. My friend took cover as the ex and I became involved in a somewhat heated conversation and some head slapping. For safety's sake, he pulled off the road by a ditch and a couple of sprigs some might consider trees. Young Sandra immediately took advantage of my desperate situation and bolted out of the car to have a cigarette. As I was thrashing through the brambles, weeds, and small swamp, the ex was hollering something like, "If you get arrested I'll make sure your AC friends know all about your loose character and lack of common decency!"

 

While I was clinging to one of the sprigs, I had to laugh. Like they don't already!