From time to time there were "fun" activities planned for the kids. This particular day they'd decided to herd the kids off to mini-golf; mostly to stop them screaming for one god-damn second.
As you can imagine, I wasn't the most normal kid. My brain sometimes seemed to make connections that were a little bit odd. For one thing I thought that track-suits were the height of fashion. I refused to wear any other style of clothing. I was also desperately afraid of doing anything embarrasing, which is strange given that when you're wearing a track-suit your whole life automatically becomes a joke.
To an extent I'm still afraid of embarrasement. I spend a lot of my life flinching as I fend off assault after assault of bad memories. You might well ask why, if I'm so uncomfortable with my own humiliation, I choose to publish it on the internet for all to see? I dunno. I guess I'm just stupid.
Anyway, this particular day the temperature outside was around fifty-million-billion degrees. The fierce eye of Ra was hot enough to liquefy the tarmac. Stepping outside was like stepping into an oven that was baking a block of uranium. This wasn't really the optimum temperature for a kid who permenantly dressed in winter clothes.
In all its wisdom, the holiday program had decided that the best activity for a hot day was a vigorous afternoon of mini-golf. Outside.
Okay, that sounds unpleasant, but not exactly hell on earth. As bad as the heat was, it probably wouldn't have been that much of a problem on its own.
No, to turn this into a truely memorable experience I was going to have to step up and throw my own awful decisions into the ring.
Just before we left for the bus one of the underpaid child-wranglers turned to me and said, "You should probably go to the toilet before we leave."
"I don't need to go," I replied confidently.
The child-wrangler gave me a skeptical look. Children always need to pee.
"Are you sure?" she asked, carefully hinting that I might be wrong. "Perhaps you should go, just in case."
A smart child would probably have shrugged their shoulders at this point and gone to the toilet just for the hell of it. My child brain was having none of that though. At this point my pride had become invested. I had decided that I didn't need to pee, and by god I was sticking to my guns.
"Nope. I don't need to go."
"It's going to be a long day."
"Nope!"
The child-wrangler just shrugged and left me alone. There was no way she was being paid enough to spend more than five seconds trying to convince some stupid kid that he actually needed to pee. I stood victorious, proud of my decision to stand up for myself. We were herded onto the bus. I sat down on my seat, and instantly realised I needed to pee.
I held it all the way to the mini-golf centre.
Once again, you'd think that a rational person would see the end of the bus trip as their salvation. They would approach one of the child-wranglers, explain that they needed to pee, and ask where the nearest toilet was. Not me. I'd said I didn't need to pee. I'd said it emphatically, three times. In my mind having to go back on my word would be humiliating.
So, there I was, roasting under the hot sun, my child-bladder slowly expanding to the size of a ripe grapefruit. And I was playing mini-golf. I was sweating into my tracksuit like a masturbating nerd-pig, not just from the heat, but from the colossal effort of holding in my pee.
Time passed.
It felt like hours, but it was probably only thirty minutes. I felt like I was going to die. Even so, I wasn't going to ask where a toilet was. This was about dignity. Eventually though, I had to face the fact that if I didn't pee soon, my body was going to suspend parliament and take my vote away.
I had to think fast. I stood out there in the hot sun and lent my vast child-intellect to the problem. Perhaps it was the heat, perhaps it was the slow build-up of piss toxins in my brain; either way, I hit on a brilliant plan:
The sun was hot, my tracksuit was dark blue... and absorbant.
Never before, and never since, have I made such a conscious decision to wet myself. I literally stood there in the middle of the golf course waying the pros and cons before deciding to go for it.
I released.
Pee streamed down my legs, warm and slightly itchy. It soaked the front of my pants and pooled in the little cuffs at the bottom. I stood there, looking down with a mixture of horror and relief: horror at the amount of liquid coming out of me, relief that it wasn't in my body anymore. I was well past the point of no-return.
There would be no more mini-golf for me after that. I was absolutely drenched in my own urine, but I didn't care. As far as I was concerned, I had escaped with my pride intact.
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