If we drive up for a picnic at the lake this July 4th, any need to stop along the way isn’t clear. After retirement, the severity of the urge to head to the bathroom is no longer related to what happens when you get there – whether only a trickle or a beer-growler full. I no longer know what to expect. After age 70, a fellow can sometimes go to bed and sleep until noon without answering “the call.” On other nights, he stumbles through the dark three times before morning to dribble barely enough to fill a shot glass.

Besides quantity, quality is of interest now. Is it clear or cloudy? Yellow or Pink? With or without essence of asparagus? These fundamentals never came to mind during hours spent in college watering holes – where any trip to the latrine was postponed repeatedly in favor of food or flirtation. It was manly to go all night without any skip to the loo. Now, the term anticipation correlates more closely to what occurs during the last twenty feet on final approach to a urinal. It’s reminiscent of that scandalous book, “Willie Maykit?” authored by Betty Doughn’t and illustrated by Shirley Hopeso.

I recall that picturesque horseback ride along the banks of the Little Missouri River near Killdeer, ND, years ago. After an hour-long ride, the trail eventually ascended to flat terrain at the top of the ravine, at which time the nag on which I straddled took off like a Saturn rocket toward the barn where oats awaited. Despite maintaining one city-slicker hand on the saddle horn, pulling hard on reins with the other and yelling “WHOA!” Secretariat wouldn’t slow down. Similarly now, after ascending from the family room’s recliner for my gallop to the bathroom, I understand any equine’s urgency to find its barndoor. Hoping I can find my own before flood gates open happens on practically every pressurized path to the lavatory these days.

A temporary abatement from worry arrived thanks to catheterization before surgery years ago. Insertion of the drain pipe occurred after I was put to sleep – erasing anxiety about its placement. There was no need to worry about draining the radiator for a full day afterwards. I could have read the complete Harry Potter trilogy without need to part ways with the bed. And, as it turned out, removal of the vent while wide awake was accomplished by a nurse with little ado. It was as challenging as slipping the straw from a soda cup although I worried it might be comparable to extraction of a wine bottle’s cork – disparity in size notwithstanding.

Sure, I understood there was good reason to use the catheter. But, there was a smidgeon of humiliation in my case – that I couldn’t be trusted with bladder control for a short stroll to the water closet. However, there was more than a smidgeon of worry about limited feeling down there when it was extracted – and what that might indicate. More or less, things are back to normal now – meaning it’s never clear if I can make it to the sports page before the need arrives to beat it to the bano.

As a child, my parents packed an empty orange-juice can in the car for the 90-minute drive to Grandma’s every July 4th. Dad never stopped to find relief along the way. I knew why. He reported the number of minutes the trip took to his brother-in-law and didn’t want the embarrassment caused by admitting a time less impressive than Mario Andretti might have.

I’m rethinking the wisdom of packing an empty container in our car now. Life has come full orange-juice can circle. After years of roaring past interstate pit stops to save a minute or two, it is more of a gamble now, and I sometimes mistakenly choose to roll the dice.

I would like to share more thoughts on this subject. But, right now … I’ve gotta go. No, really, I’ve gotta…