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Don’t Look, Ma — No Hands!

I woke up this morning in a bit of a predicament. I was groggy, as usual. I had no motor coordination, as usual. I had to pee really badly, as usual. And my hands were completely, one hundred percent asleep. No feeling at all. None.

I’d apparently been sleeping on my arms for most of the night. From the elbows down, it’s like I wasn’t even there. There were two fat-fingered lumps of limb down there, and I had no control over them.

Did I mention that I had to pee? Really badly?

“Without going into too much detail, let’s just say it involved some swaying, some shimmying, and more than a little gyrating. My local Elvis impersonators’ union would’ve been proud.”

I managed to wiggle myself off the bed and shuffled to the bathroom. I was afraid to sit on the toilet to pee, for fear I might not have use of my arms to push myself back up afterward.

Also, because I have a penis. Someone might have seen me there. Yeek!

Negotiating a path through the peeing hole in my boxers took a bit of doing. Without going into too much detail, let’s just say it involved some swaying, some shimmying, and more than a little gyrating. My local Elvis impersonators’ union would’ve been proud.

Eventually, I managed to assume the position. With my hands still abstaining from participation, I stood facing the open toilet bowl with a clear path, a full bladder, and a heart full of hope. I pointed myself at the water, told my fingers to cross themselves — which they didn’t — and let loose.

What followed felt a little like surfing, or maybe skateboarding. With nothing to hold onto for balance, I had to make tiny and constant adjustments at the hips, knees, and shoulders. One small miscalculation, and I’d be scrubbing down the bowl and floor as soon as the feeling returned to my fingers.

One large miscalculation — or god forbid, a sneeze — and I’d be dry cleaning the drapes, repainting the ceiling, or buying new toothbrushes. I tried very hard not to think about ground pepper or direct sunlight for the duration of the procedure.

Luckily, I had a clear sight line down to the old unmentionables, so I could see what I was doing. I may be a ‘fat old man’, but I’m not that fat. I can still visually confirm how things are progressing when I’m peeing, if need be. Unlike, say, John Goodman, for instance. I bet he hasn’t seen himself pee in years. For all he knows, there’s a midget down there siphoning urine out of his bladder with a turkey baster and shooting it into the bowl.

(Yes, I agree it’s unlikely. But he can’t possibly know for sure. Not without a lot of free time and a complicated series of carefully placed mirrors. I’m just saying.)

I’m happy to report that my handless bodily control was nothing short of impeccable. By the time I could feel my arms again, I had finished without spilling a drop, and had even flushed the toilet.

Don’t ask me how I flushed. It’s not my proudest moment, and I nearly threw out a hip.

And now I still have to buy new toothbrushes. Dammit.