Incontinence

I often think about the future.

Not the cool parts of the future where I get to see my kids graduate college or where I get to finally accept the Pulitzer for Tiny Life.  No, I think about the times when I won’t have any teeth or I’ll be too poor to afford a car or the nation comes under such financial strain that the government announces no one can have a pension “but only this one time, we swear it.”  Today I thought of incontinence.

I always wondered how that worked.  I’ve wondered how you can go from having the urge and holding it for several hours (sometimes there just isn’t a bathroom) to not being able to tell if you’re going or not.  Before I reached my conclusion on that philosophical brain-buster, I had a new thought: do woman accept it more easily?

Women wear some form of diaper for at least half of their lives.  There’s a short period (pardon the pun) between menopause and elder-care where they don’t wear anything.  Then, suddenly (or maybe gradually; like I said, I wasn’t able to solve that riddle), they have to wear them again.  I wonder if it’s almost welcome.  I wonder if it’s like greeting a friend who’s finally come home.
I know, as a guy, wearing a diaper is one of the last things I’d want to happen.  But do you think it might be because I’ve never really worn one after my 18th-month “sink the cheerios” landmark?  Or do you think it’s because it’s icky?  Or maybe because, physically, that’s generally one of the last stops on the train to the grave?

Logically, I’d think going in my pants would save a lot of time.  I could literally sit at my drawing table all day long.

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