On a solo trip to Italy, I had all the makings of a dream evening in Florence: comfortable flats, pistachio gelato, and a seat in front of the Duomo, lit up against the dark night sky. Inside my purse were a folded map of the city, my dog-eared guidebook, plenty of euros, and a ticket for the local city bus. The stars were glowing, and a few feet away an elderly man with a basket of sunflowers began to sing “La Vie En Rose.” I felt inspired, confident, bold … and then like I urgently needed to pee.
It took me about seven seconds to calculate how long it would take me to get back to my Airbnb if I sprinted, which would be too long. In my mind, I quickly ran through the nearby places with bathrooms, all of which displayed a “Restroom not for public use” sign. Before I could Google “How do you say ‘complete freaking emergency’ in Italian?” it became more of a damage control situation. I felt the warm sensation spread across the seat of my pants, quickly turning into a chilly puddle. Defeated, I tied my denim jacket around my waist, threw away the rest of my gelato, and walked back to my room. The perfect Italian night was over.
At first, I chalked it up to too many espressos and not enough public restrooms in the city of Florence, but the desperate urges continued over the next three days as I toured the city. After nearly knocking over a young girl patiently waiting her turn, I barely made it to the restroom at a local cafe. At the Accademia Gallery, I had to do the whole legs-squeezed-together-and-biting-my-bottom-lip routine while looking at Michelangelo’s “Prisoners.” I, too, felt like a prisoner.
I knew that I couldn’t continue to fool myself. There just weren’t enough clean pants left in my suitcase. Plus, I’d always been such a big proponent of listening to my heart, so why was my bladder suddenly the one calling all of the shots?
I had not wanted to address the big wet elephant in the room for fear that it would limit me, that people would judge me as I bought pantyliners, and that perhaps a doctor would even tell me I shouldn’t travel any longer. But it was the lack of addressing it that actually limited me. I was allowing my urge incontinence to dictate how I spent my days, where I stopped for lunch, and how long I was able to gaze at Italian Renaissance masterpieces.
My time in Florence forced me to own the condition instead of letting the condition own me. While there, I took to Google for a quick self-diagnosis. Turns out that about 24% of women between the ages of 18 and 44 experience some sort of incontinence. I made sure to see my doctor when I arrived home, who assured me that my diagnosis would not keep me from seeing the world. Of course, I haven’t stopped traveling. Instead, I’ve implemented a new self-care routine that involves a hydrating face mask, completing at least three sets of 10 Kegel exercises every day, and adhering to a strict policy of not cursing at my weak pelvic floor muscles. Now, wherever I go, I make sure to always have a guidebook handy, plus a pair of leak-proof underwear and a few spare pantyliners. What other people think of that? None of my business.
The Duomo Embarrassment, as I’ve come to call it, empowered me to self-advocate. The result? More time looking at beautiful art and architecture and less time looking for a bathroom.
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