I'm am 47 Years Old And My Bladder is A Threat To Society

I Am 47 Years Old and My Bladder Is a Threat to Society

Let me say this clearly so there is no confusion.

I am 47 years old.

Not “about to be.”

Not “almost.”

Not “next year.”

I am HERE.

And apparently, at 47, your body no longer communicates with you in calm, respectful ways. It communicates through threats.

Specifically, my bladder.

Every time I am about to leave my house, my anxiety and my bladder have a private meeting without me.

And the conclusion is always the same:

“You should pee. Right now.”

Now mind you — I just peed.

Not a courtesy pee.

Not a “let me just try.”

I mean a full, soul-cleansing, river-running-through-the-mountains pee.

I’m empty. I’m light. I’m confident. I’m free.

I zip up my pants thinking, Yes. We handled business.

That’s when my bladder laughs quietly.

The Pre-Departure Pee (A Ritual I Did Not Choose)

At this stage in life, leaving the house is not a casual act.

It is a process.

Keys. Phone. Wallet. Anxiety.

Pee.

I cannot skip the pee.

If I skip the pee, the universe will punish me.

So I pee.

And not to be dramatic, but if there were a dam involved, it would be structurally compromised.

I’m standing there like, Where did all this liquid come from??

Did I drink a gallon of water in my sleep?

Is my body storing emergency reserves?

Because why is this happening EVERY TIME?

Anyway. I pee. I wash my hands. I leave.

And I feel great.

I feel so great that I forget what’s coming.

The Illusion of Freedom

Here’s the part that makes this insulting.

While I’m out, I pass every bathroom known to man.

Gas stations.

Target.

Grocery stores.

Fast food places.

Public bathrooms I would NEVER use unless my life depended on it.

I don’t need to pee.

Not even a little.

My bladder is quiet. Respectful. Cooperative.

It’s almost like it’s setting me up.

Because my bladder is a liar.

The Five-Minute Warning From Hell

Let me tell you exactly when things go wrong.

Not an hour from home.

Not thirty minutes.

Five minutes.

Five minutes from my house, my bladder suddenly remembers its purpose.

Out of nowhere, I get a sensation so aggressive it feels personal.

It’s not a suggestion.

It’s a demand.

“Hey Bitch.... We need to pee.”

No — not need.

Require.

My bladder doesn’t even give me time to argue.

It’s like:

“This is not a drill.

This is not negotiable.

If you do not comply, there will be consequences.”

My foot hits the gas.

My legs start doing that thing you know the thing where they’re crossing and squeezing like they’re trying to fuse together.

I’m clenching muscles I didn’t even know I had.

I’m talking to myself.

"You’re fine.

You’re fine.

You’re not fine.”

Pulling Into the Driveway Like It’s the Daytona 500

I pull into my driveway like I’m in a high-speed chase.

Park.

Door open.

Keys already in my hand because I’m not stupid.

Except my hands are shaking like I’m defusing a bomb.

I get out of the car and now I’m walking in a way that can only be described as interpretive dance for survival.

My legs are twisted.

My posture is off.

My dignity has clocked out.

If anyone saw me, they would think I was either:

injured

possessed

or about to commit a crime

I get to the door.

THIS is where the real terror begins.

The Key Will Never Go In Fast Enough

Why is it that in moments of crisis, keys suddenly forget their shape?

I am staring at the lock.

The key is right there.

This should take half a second.

But no.

My hand says:

“Let’s shake violently.”

My bladder says:

“You got 3…2....”

My legs are wrapped around each other like a pretzel made of fear.

I finally get the door open and at this point my bladder has completely abandoned hope.

It has decided:

“We warned you.

Now we release.”

The Bathroom Sprint (Too Late Edition)

I run to the bathroom.

Well — run is generous.

I waddle at top speed.

By the time I get there, pants coming down, hope still alive for half a second

IT IS ALREADY HAPPENING.

I cannot stop it.

There is no pause button.

There is no “wait just one second.”

My bladder is like:

“You should have respected me sooner.”

And I’m standing there like…

WHAT THE FUCK IS THIS LIFE???

Who Authorized This Stage of Womanhood?

Because let me be clear.

No one warned me.

Nobody said:

“Hey, around 47, your bladder might become dramatic.”

“You might pee your pants a little and it won’t even be your fault.”

“Your anxiety and your pelvic floor will start collaborating.”

I was told about hot flashes.

I was told about mood swings.

Nobody said:

“You will fear your own front door.”

This Is Not About Weakness This Is About BETRAYAL

Because here’s the thing.

I am strong.

I am capable.

I run businesses.

I handle stress.

But my bladder?

My bladder is an agent of chaos.

It does not care who I am.

It does not care what I’ve accomplished.

It does not care that I JUST PEED.

It only cares that we are close to home.

Apparently, the bladder is like a dog.

Once it knows we’re safe, it loses all discipline.

And Don’t Let Anxiety Be Involved

Because anxiety makes it worse.

Anxiety is like:

“Hey, what if you pee yourself?”

And your bladder is like:

“Say less.”

Now it’s a team effort.

Now it’s coordinated.

Now I’m fighting on multiple fronts.

The Aftermath (A Moment of Reflection on the Toilet)

Once it’s over, I sit there.

Defeated.

Tired.

Laughing.

Because what else can you do?

I didn’t lose control because I was careless.

I lost control because biology decided to humble me

This Is the Shit Nobody Talks About

We talk about aging like it’s graceful.

No.

Aging is your body doing weird shit and you having to laugh about it so you don’t cry.

It’s realizing:

you’re not broken

you’re not alone

and this happens to WAY more women than anyone admits

Final Thoughts From a 47-Year-Old With Trust Issues

If you see me rushing to my door, don’t speak.

Don’t wave.

Don’t ask questions.

I am not being rude.

I am fighting for my life.

And if you are also 40+ and silently nodded your head while reading this?

Welcome.

We are many.

And our bladders are unhinged.