The rest of the story

Here is that story I wanted to tell two posts ago, but didn't because I couldn't stop talking about feudal chair societies.  As it turns out the story is not that great.  Oh well, here it is:

I was on a plane last month, just minding my own business when the flight attendant offered the person next to me a beverage. That person asked for water. The attendant filled a cup with ice, then added water. As she was handing the water to the person, the cup and its contents fell from her hand.  As a result, the ice and water spilled forth out of the cup and landed safely on me.

This was very lucky for the attendant because I'm really nice, and I like it when weird things happen to me.

That's all.  Not the best story, I know.



Oh, I forgot to mention that the place where the water and ice landed on me and the way it soaked certain parts of my clothing was... well, let's just say that I haven't sported that particular wetness pattern since first grade.  Luckily, back then I wore Toughskin jeans, which, I think, were manufactured out of plastic because if you ever got them too hot they would melt, literally.  Wet or dry, Toughskins looked the same.

This time I was wearing blue jeans.  And, as I inspected myself, I realized that no matter what had actually happened on that plane--to the people I would encounter over the next several minutes--I had essentially wet my pants.  The signs were unmistakable, a dark patch that started in the central pant region and spread outwardly in a circular pattern.

I calculated how much longer I would be airborne before having to deplane.  Was there enough time to dry?

It would be close.

I took solace in the fact that I was heading to Seattle.  The only better city in the Western United States for wetting one's pants: Portland.  Surely, neither the hippies nor the nerds would judge me harshly for my apparent bladder-control issues, I imagined.

The plane landed.  I stood.  I deplaned.

For some reason, as I wandered through the SEA-TAC airport, doing my best to stagger as if I were drunk--thus giving plausible reason for grown-man-wet-pants--the old jingle for Pull-ups repeated in a continuous loop in my head, "Mommy, wow!  I'm a big kid now."