Last Saturday, my beau and I decided that it was a prime night to be wild. And when I say wild, I mean we hit up the spiciest and tastiest Indian food spot we know in the city. Being Southeast Asian, a successful dinner is one where my mouth feels like it’s melting off. I want there to be a weird tingling sensation in my ears that feels like nuclear activity is bubblin’. I crave the fiery adrenaline surging through my body because it makes me feel alive, damn it. To each their own, right? So yeah, lamb vindaloo at Bengal Tiger near Rockefeller Center is my idea of getting “lit.” If you get nothing else out of this post, at least you’ll score a killer vindaloo rec along with a couple of public restroom spots in Central Park, but let’s not get too ahead of this splash of a story.
When the server took our order, he did a double take. “You know this is VEEEERY SPICY, right?” I shot him back a nod that said, “Look, I’ve been consuming the spiciest of foods since I was in the womb. I can’t vouch for my boyfriend, but I’m good, homie.”
After munching on cheese naan (we go hard), our blazing party platters were served. I took one bite and was like, “psssh, this is no biggie.” But after the fifth or sixth bite, I realized that this was the kind of spice that builds. Like when you’re drinking and you don’t think a cocktail is that strong so you chug along like it ain’t no thang. Then all the sudden when you get up, you realize that you’re freaking tanked.
We sat there sweating in a spice-induced stupor, not talking, just sorta staring into each other’s eyes for solidarity. Finally, I broke the silence. “Colton, this is too much,” I panted with my tongue hanging out. I didn’t want to stop though. “Yeah, let’s order that cucumber yogurt,” he said.
All this time, I was chugging glass upon glass of water because it felt like I needed to put out the wildfire raging inside of my mouth. The server came by to fill up my glass and said, “spicy?” with a smirk. FIIIINE, dude. You win. This is probably top of the charts spicy for me. But like a champion who refuses to give up before the finish line, I kept eating and drinking water. At one point, I looked over at my Midwestern, white boyfriend who was scarfing it down faster than I was, and said, “say something, I feel like I’m crazy for not being able to handle this.” He nervously chuckled, took a breath, and kept eating. So I kept chowing too, entranced by this weird game of masochistic chicken.
By the time we paid the bill, I had already peed twice. With the help of the cucumber raita, we were able to leave with our heads held high. But since, as we’ve already discussed, I’m a woman who can’t hold her pee (and I wasn’t wearing my Icon), I got nervous as we walked towards Central Park. I already had to go again.
When a person with incontinence imbibes their daily requirement for H20 consumption (8 glasses) within an hour, we’re ultimately doomed. I was in full crisis mode and needed an evacuation plan.
Colton knows the drill very well and quickly mapped the closest public restrooms. Thank Beyonce, there were two within range. We darted toward the first only to discover a line of ten people trickling out the door. Standing in lines while in a pee crisis can make the urge much greater, so we pushed on to option B.
I was power walking to find a porcelain throne (incontinence doesn’t make you any less of a queen, ladies), fully aware that the Duane Reade knickers (cuz I’m classy AF...?) under my dress would NOT have my back (or bottom). People were everywhere, including a Big Bird character in a suit, so public humiliation was eminent.
Colton dashed ahead to scout the second bathroom, but returned with a disheartening update. “It’s closed for a private party, babe. Let’s go back to the first one?” I had no choice. We rushed back to plan A. Phew! There was no line to be seen. I ran towards the door leaving Colton in my dust. I WAS SAVED.
My hand clasped the door handle and yanked with all my might but it didn’t budge. And that was how I learned the hard way that public restrooms in Central Park close at 8pm. Ok, I thought, I guess this is the time I pee myself publicly in Central Park.
My options had run out and my life was in shambles. “I’ll block you while you go behind those bushes and trees,” Colton said, knowing full well that I was one wrong move from having pee dribbling down my legs. “I can’t do that!” I yelped, but we both kept moving toward a secluded alcove away from the decent folks enjoying their evening walk. It’s not my proudest moment, but I lifted up my dress and popped a squat. OH SWEET RELIEF.
Fortunately no one seemed to see me, and I dodged a public urination line item on my still pristine rap sheet, so alls well that ends well. But it may be a while before I tangle with vindaloo again.
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