I stand in the resort exercise room with 20 class participants, cueing them through a sequence of stretches. My watch tells me there’s 15 minutes left in the class, but my bladder screams that I need to pee now. I never had this problem until menopause, but now it seems I’m in crisis mode whenever I leave the house.
I speak in a calm voice and wrench my lips into a smile, hiding the grimace that wants to take over. I contract my Kegel muscles tighter, hoping they’ll keep the pee in my bladder where it’s supposed to be when I’m standing in front of a group in public. Trying not to look obvious, I glance at my watch again. Only three minutes have passed. What if I don’t make it? What if I pee myself and everyone sees that the 55-year-old instructor who’s supposed to be their role model is incontinent? The pair of pee-proof underwear I’m wearing is supposed to work, but I’m still always worried.
The irony of my situation makes me want to laugh. But I don’t dare do that in my predicament. Here I am, encouraging my students to relax, listen to their breathing, stay in the moment, and be present in their bodies. It’s one of the main attractions of this luxury resort spa—providing an atmosphere where guests can escape the stress of day-to-day life and get in touch with their authentic selves. I look like the ideal example of health and fitness, too. I’m slender and sculpted from decades of swimming, yoga, and the variety of classes I teach. Plus, I love to exercise—it gives me energy, an optimistic outlook, and better health—so it’s easy to show my enthusiasm for movement when I teach. My demeanor on the surface is calm and compassionate. No one would ever guess that I’m in a state of high anxiety because my pelvic floor has a mind of its own.
Teaching a class is always an adrenaline rush. My sympathetic nervous system kicks into overdrive because I’m not only the leader, I’m also responsible for everyone’s safety. But I enjoy the excitement, and helping people feels good. When I’m not in a state of emergency, I focus all my attention on watching each person to make sure each stretch is done safely. I’m still able to explain each movement and how it can be adjusted for a hip replacement or a recent shoulder injury, but I’m distracted by racing thoughts. Why didn’t I bring extra underwear and exercise pants today? Is it obvious that I’m standing funny? I know I’m shifting around too much.
I lead the group to stretches on their backs. At least the pressure on my bladder isn’t as intense lying down. Still, every minute seems like an hour. The discomfort is the least of my problems. The fear of complete humiliation is the worst of it. All too often, I’ve nearly made it—only to feel drenched panties and pee running down my leg. It would be a hundred times worse if that happened in front of all of these people! People don’t pee their pants here.
The class ends. A woman stops me to ask about more stretches for the IT band. Another wants to know if my Personal Best Stretch DVD is for sale in the gift shop. I should be thrilled, but all I can think about is the look on her face if I had an accident. Does she notice I’m shifting back and forth on my feet, clenching my Kegel muscles like there’s no tomorrow?
I’ve only put away half of the foam rollers. I’m still in bare feet. But everyone’s left the room. The rest can wait. I walk as fast as I can down the hallway and rush into a bathroom stall. I see someone’s feet in the one beside me. I wonder if she was as desperate to go as I was. A woman in boot camp class once told me she couldn’t run because the bouncing caused bladder leaks. I know I’m not the only one with this problem. But I always feel so alone whenever I’m standing in front of a class.