Thanks to Ella for dredging up this old memory with her post on the secret egg cache….
When I was nine years old, Grandma and Aunt Ease took me to visit Great-Aunt Bertha, who lived in Kentucky on a farm. Compared to my house, hers was a mansion, except for one thing.
Her toilet was outdoors.
I hated the outhouse because a) it smelled bad, b) it was a two-seater, which opened up the opportunity for communal pottying and c) it was in the middle of a cow pasture, surrounded by an electric fence.
As a city kid, I was afraid of the cows.
As a neat freak, I was worried about stepping in a cow patty.
As a rational person, I was scared to death of the electric fence.
And, to top it off, there were eggs in one of the holes, which raised an etiquette issue: is it okay to pee on eggs? And if you do, and you don’t say anything to anyone, will you wind up eating your own pee for breakfast the next morning?
With all these neuroses whirling around in my brain, it’s no surprise that I put off urinating for as long as possible. I mean till the last, Hindenburg-bladdered, about-to- explode minute.
Which is why, when I finally made a run for it, I forgot about the fence.
For the sake of clarity, let me just say this: there is nothing about peeing that is enhanced by having 11 volts of electricity coursing down your body.
And vice versa.