The device appeared on the front porch for my birthday: seven inches of sturdy pink plastic shaped like a deep-bowled spoon. “Happy Peeing!” my friend — who, like me, is an avid hiker — had written on a note tied with a ribbon.
The gift was a personal urination tool that allows people with vaginas to stand when they urinate. “Gross!” my teenage daughter groaned.
My husband side-eyed the oblong apparatus as if it might present a threat. “Weird.”
I assessed the gadget: a miniature aqueduct. My friend had included a washable absorbent paisley square — a pee cloth that could be attached to the user’s backpack with a strap that read “Piss Off.”
“This,” I breathed, “could be life-changing.”
My mother taught me to pee in Southern California mountains as soon as I could walk. I did the same for my daughter in Oregon forests, adding the bonus skill of weeing off the side of her kiddie kayak on three-hour paddles. In both cases, privacy was paramount: You found a generously trunked tree or a sheltered cove, then squatted, bare-cheeked, and did your business, inevitably dripping on your shoes before wiping with a fistful of leaves or a handful of snow. It was an imperfect process, but better than moving through the wilderness with a bladder on fire.
In my 20s, I took an all-women’s rafting trip on the Merced River. After a lunch break on land, I stared in awe as our guide — a beautiful young blond woman — copped a riverside squat and simply slipped aside the crotch of her bathing suit so she could pee in the water. I was not that bold; I would never be that bold. Instead I walked deep into the woods, away from the group of laughing ladies, and assumed the position behind a Sequoia, butt exposed to the elements and urine splashing on my sport sandals.
I envied my father and brother, my husband and every other person in the outdoors who could hear nature’s call and promptly answer into the nearest shrubbery. The crouch can be demeaning; you’re in a position of submission, one that often results in resonant flatulence. If attacked by bears or yellow jackets, you’d lose valuable time yanking up your pants.
Peeing in a standing position means you’re ready at the slightest hint of danger to bounce. I longed to relieve myself safely, without pulling off half my clothing; I yearned to write my name in the snow.
And then my friend gave me the spoon-funnel invention.
It turns out, however, that 18th-century women had already figured out how to pee standing up, during hourslong dinner parties without a toilet in sight. Encumbered by long, heavy skirts, they could hoist back their satins and silks and brocades and let loose in a handled porcelain chamber pot called a bourdaloue. In his painting “La Toilette Intime (Une Femme Qui Pisse),” or “The Intimate Toilette (A Woman Who Pees)” (circa 1760s), the artist François Boucher depicts a demure young woman holding back her pink and green skirts and petticoats so that she can go in a delicate vessel shaped like a gravy boat.
It’s not a comfortable image. Boucher depicts the lady in an awkward standing position, stocking-clad legs spread and slightly bent, feet on tiptoe. She looks as if she might tumble forward at any second. Today, when you’re using a contemporary bourdaloue, there’s no need for isometrics. You can simply stand with your back to the trail and gaze out into the distance as if admiring the view. Unzip or pull down your elastic waistband a couple of inches and slip the bowl of the device under your vulva. Tip your pelvis forward 10 degrees, point the funnel end toward the ground, aim away from your footwear and you’re good to go.
There’s been a lot of buzz around female power stances — hands on hips and feet planted firmly in the ground, shoulders back. I believe those of us with vaginas can discover comparable strength and confidence when we stand up to pee. A friend who also purchased a urination device described for me the exhilaration she felt on a recent road trip when her husband and his guy friends lined up on the side of the road and unzipped — where, formerly, she might have scuttled behind the nearest bush or suffered until the next rest stop, now she merely claimed a place among her fellow travelers.
I’m happy to pack around a whimsical facsimile of a penis and lend it — with hand sanitizer — to anyone in need. Despite the revulsion of some friends, and my teenager, I’ll continue to evangelize for these devices. They level the playing field where public urination is concerned. With one of these devices tucked into my purse, there’s no need to touch the filthy surface of a truck-stop toilet ever again. As well, my days of hovering above a urine-splashed toilet seat are over. Heck, I could feasibly skip the interminable line for the ladies’ restroom at concerts and conferences and high-tail it out the back door.
I’ve continued my friend’s practice and given personal urination devices and adorable, absorbent pee cloths as gifts. Half my friends express profound gratitude. The other half express profound disgust. “But what if I touch my pee?” one friend squealed. “That’s just nasty!” I informed her that she was just as likely to come into contact with her pee if she wiped with forest detritus, or performed a sort of drip-drying twerk as I used to after too many times getting prickers in my privates. “Just try it,” I told her. “It’s revolutionary.”
Melissa Hart is the author, most recently, of “Down Syndrome Out Loud: 20+ True Stories of Disability and Determination.” She lives in Oregon. Find her on social media @WildMelissaHart.
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