It Was an Ugly Couch Anyway: And Other Thoughts on Moving Forward

by Elizabeth Passarella

Stephanie claims it is most pronounced when doing a downward dog in yoga, which is why I haven’t noticed a change in my knee skin; I don’t like yoga. But I have been growing a patchy beard every day since high school, an affliction I would trade in a hot second for droopy kneecaps. When women I know talk about how they are going to sign a pact with a friend who will commit to “plucking that one curly chin hair” for them when they’re old and incapacitated, I laugh and laugh. One chin hair? One? I’m going to need a small lawn mower, not tweezers, by that point. Is that interesting to anyone? Is everyone starting with necks because necks are more palatable? Is everything else too gross? I hope not, because what I’d really love to discuss is peeing my pants. Don’t worry, this is also a story about running and family dynamics. But it starts with peeing my pants. My mother hates when I say the word pee. And I don’t blame her. Tinkle or tee tee, her preferred choices, are both a little less crass sounding. But I am forty-six years old, and if I’m going to be real about the indignities of involuntarily wetting my pants, I think I need to come in with more firepower than tinkle.