Our Work in Progress

When I was in the third grade, I was forced into some bad habits. The only sister in the entire parochial school I attended (from Pre-K through eighth grade, mind you) taught third grade. Sister Marge had the tendency to amble back and forth at the head of the classroom, reading to us from third-grade novels, stimulating our third-grade imaginations. Our creative moments were mostly born from guessing at what she had in her pockets while she subconsciously crinkled whatever was in there. The crinkling overwhelmed her reading voice (I still don't know what happens in Tuck Everlasting). Candy wrappers? Receipts? Each step she took across the old classroom floor was emphasized by the creaking of the wood panels. Creak, creak. Crinkle, crinkle. Dramatic pause. Something about the fountain of youth. That was Sister Marge's bad habit. Crinkling.

Regardless of her bad habit, she instilled plenty of others in her students. While she was instructing, we weren't allowed to get up to blow our noses or run to the bathroom until the lesson was over. Really, the only lesson I gleaned from that rule was that a hand is as good as a kleenex (which doesn't really translate that well in adulthood). I also happened to develop incredible bladder strength.

This never seemed valuable to me until I found myself lying face up, staring at the ceiling of a tent from the 1980's as a barrage of raindrops assaulted the tent walls. This was the joy of camping. Josh and I had rented out a campsite at Yellowstone Lake State Park for the weekend, and prior to the 100 degree weather, the forecast was full of scattered thunderstorms. From 3 a.m. to 4 a.m., I scrunched my face and held my breath. All I could think about was how awful this used to feel while I sat through those third-grade reading sessions. Sister Marge never taught me how to drink half a cooler of sangria before bedtime, but she did guide me to a little self discovery. I learned that I'd rather sit in pain for hours before I'd face her scolding when I tried to run for the bathroom. The self discovery I learned while camping? I'd rather kill myself holding it before I would think about venturing to a bathroom in the middle of a rainstorm.

This holds true even when said rainstorm lasts several hours without breaking. What did break, though, was my spirit. Thoughts of inevitable UTIs seeped into my head as the rainwater seeped up from the floor of that 1980's tent. This was so not worth it. So I channeled my inner third-grader, twisting and turning and whimpering until I woke Josh up. Suffering with a buddy is better than suffering alone (unless you are the buddy, I'm told). Sister Marge's strength training had finally failed me. I was going to make the long, dark, wet walk to the bathrooms.

But just as quickly as I had finished off that last beer before bed, the storm let up. The light from the moon illuminated my path to the outhouses, and in what clearly sounds like the most glamorous moment of my life-

Victory was mine.