REVENGE OF THE PELVIC FLOOR

Slap slap.

Jiggle jiggle.

Feet crunching over pine needles,

and crispy leaves.

Leapfrogging over stones

and bounding across roots.

I am a majestic show pony.

I lean back and thud down the rolling hill.

 

My pelvic floor creaks.

Bladder pipes up,

Oh hi.

Not now, I pant.

I’m Being Brilliant

(can’t you see?)

and running for the first time

in forever.

Forehead slick

and breath escaping noisily

out of the side of my mouth,

like a wrinkly balloon.

I think we need a wee, Bladder says.

Nope. No we don’t.

We had a wee before we left home

and then another one,

just for luck,

before the run started.

You’re empty.

Now shhh.

 

Clop clop.

Crunch crunch.

Nettles scramble across the path

and light muscles its way

through the trees,

hurling miniature strobes at our feet.

 

No really, says Bladder.

I have to go.

Shh – it!

I just weed a bit.

I just Paula-ed.

Only I’m not doing a marathon

but a gentle jog through the woods.

This is not what people who are Being Brilliant do.

Not my fault, says Bladder.

Blame, Pelvic Floor.

 

Oi, Pelvic Floor.

We did our exercises.

(Okay, once or twice.

We were going to get the app

but then we forgot

and we thought we’d remember

to do it on the bus to work.

Like the meditation thing.)

(We’re definitely starting the meditation thing next week.)

I’m Being Brilliant and going on a run

and you’re cramping my style.

Now I have to go and find a bush.

This undignified squat,

the homing beacon stream of pee

that will race menacingly towards my shoe,

the useless shake that will release one final drop

the minute I’ve started pulling my knickers up again

and the damp, ungainly sprint back to my group,

this is your fault.

 

Pelvic Floor is silent as a stone.

Wounded and battered,

a war veteran who can never unsee

what she has seen.

Officially diagnosed as stressed,

like a harassed employee,

I am being punished

for not exercising my pelvic floor.

 

(Karma is a bitch.)