The First Time I Peed On My Boyfriend's Floor, I Was Mortified. Then It Kept Happening.

The first time I peed on my boyfriend’s living room floor, I was sure it spelled doom for our relationship. Why would he stay with someone who could do such a disgusting thing, especially when we’d only been together three months? I probably wouldn’t have.

I’d come downstairs wearing only a towel to ask him something. I don’t remember my question or his answer, but I laughed so hard my bladder couldn’t keep up.

I was mortified, even though it was an accident, like when I’d tried to make brownies and spilled cocoa powder all over his cloth storage containers. But the peeing felt like a personal failure.

At 36, I didn’t want to be a woman who peed anywhere other than a toilet. He reassured me, though, helping me clean up. I was touched by his understanding. Little did I know this would be one of numerous instances over the next decade where my bodily functions got the best of me because of him.

The year following the first peeing incident, after we’d started living together, while watching “Jeopardy!,” I called out “Einstein” with a trivia nerd’s satisfaction. When the answer was announced, he paused the TV, giving me a look previously reserved for my mixing up his beloved rock icons, Bowie and Springsteen.

“It was Stalin. Stalin! How could you mistake Einstein for Stalin?”

His absolute incredulity over having such an ignorant girlfriend sent me into hysterics. In seconds, I went from puffed up with nerdy joy to rushing across the living room carpet, hiking my dress along the way, trying to hold in my laughter and my urine.

“Did you make it?” he yelled.

My stream hitting the bowl was his answer. I’d saved the carpet, but not my panties, or my pride.

OK, I thought, trying to calm myself. I peed myself again, but