"I used to be a normal urinator. Then I reached my 50s."

Sometimes a column just speaks to you. The way this one in the WaPo spoke to me…

Soon enough, I’d be certain “to go” before driving to work (or driving just about anywhere); right before the curtain at the theater; and twice, if possible, before wheels-up on a flight (cutting down on my preflight caffeine intake helped, as did handing over a few extra dollars for an aisle seat). I started paying attention to those “60 miles to the next rest stop” road signs on the interstate; if it were more than 20 minutes away, I would stop even if I didn’t feel the urge yet.

Then came the day when I miscalculated. Driving from the Mojave Desert to Los Angeles International Airport on Interstate 10, a distance of about 150 miles, I decided to skip my mid-trip “safety pee” because, thanks to lane closures and car crashes, I was running way late. In bumper-to-bumper traffic, I crept toward LAX. I could feel my bladder first start to bulge, then crest like a river on the verge of a breach. I focused on all the perineum- strengthening exercises I’d learned in yoga — basically Kegels to strengthen the pelvic floor. I’d count, “one, two, three, four, five” and squeeze my pelvic muscles. Then, I’d release, also to a count of five. I had barely finished the second set when I knew I needed a better way.