No. 21 On Becoming the Proud Owner of a Personal Female Urination Device

Connecticut

If you’ve read that title and decided to plunge ahead anyway, intrepid traveler, I salute you. This subject is not for the faint of heart. Or the robust of bladder either, I suspect.

Perhaps the following scenario is familiar: You are trapped on a bus with no restroom and deeply regretting your decision to stay hydrated.

You are walking in the woods, alone or with others, and there is no spider-infested outhouse to slink into along the trail.

You’re trying to merge onto the George Washington Bridge in New York City, which is The Hunger Games only with cars, and it’s your ten minutes worth of bladder space versus the sixty minutes it will take to move the next quarter mile.

Panic sets in. Your mind leaps upon the hamster wheel of poor choices, smelly consequences, and public humiliation awaiting you.

If you’re a person of the male persuasion, the flexible hose attachment with which you are born makes things easy on you. Pee into a bottle. Stand up in broad daylight with your pants still covering your bottom beside the road and water, water everywhere. No problem. If you’re a person of the female persuasion, however, your choices are more limited.

The issue came to a head (so to speak) for me last summer when I was supposed to hike Trolltunga in Norway but twisted my ankle the day before and never had to resolve it. This summer, the family is taking a long hike in the Arctic in Norway. There will be zero facilities in wide open country with a guide and a dozen Huskies. The question of how to deal with potty breaks began to simmer again.

While recently cleaning out my mother’s house, I came across my prom dress from forty years ago and the hoop it required to maintain maximum width across the skirt. For those unfamiliar, the hoop is a slip with flexible circles sewn at intervals down the circumference of the garment. Think American Civil-War-Era dresses a la Scarlet O’Hara. I thought, this could make a nice privacy tent. I could step into it when I had to pee. Maybe it should hang from my neck so my hands can be inside too. Maybe it would be best if it hung from my head so I can see what I’m doing.

I envisioned whipping out the four-foot-wide slip from an overstuffed backpack, putting it on my head and squatting. Even to me it looked ridiculous. There had to be a better way.

A quick search of Amazon revealed an astounding array of devices that I did not need to dangle from my head. There’s the pStyle, the Go Girl, the SuAmiga, and the Shewee. Not to mention the Rquite company who Rquite literal with their interpretation:

I chose a PFUD that more resembled an ergonomic orange plastic funnel. It has its own carrying case, and an eight inch extender…in case what, I don’t know. The instructions suggest that you first practice your new device in the shower.

Too bad I never read instructions. It seemed self-explanatory.

I stood facing the toilet, orange funnel angled to avoid backwash. Okay, go, I told myself.

Nothing happened.

Aaand, go!

My body remained stubbornly frozen. It has, after all, been very well trained for a lifetime now NOT to pee when unseated. It took an effort to convince my muscles to relax.

Finally, I heard the happy tinkling of water in the bowl. Followed shortly thereafter by a warm stream of urine down my leg. It pooled in my sneaker. At least nobody will be able to smell the difference.

Then I consulted the instructions. Peeing in the shower is not something that I would normally admit to in public suggest. But it’s pretty clear that I need some practice before I take this thing live. Or maybe I could bring a portable pop-up head tent.

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