In which I try to pee like a man

And then try to make this story relevant to current events

This is (sort of) part 2 of my Mt. Kenya series. Read part 1 here.

When I climbed Kilimanjaro as a teen, I took Diamox, a diuretic that helps prevent pulmonary and cerebral edema (translation: your lungs and brain filling with fluid at extremely high altitudes. Why, I can’t tell you).

I remember having to pee more than normal, but I don’t remember it being an oppressive amount. Probably because I didn’t drink water before circa 2000. I mean, did anyone? I don’t even think water bottles had been invented yet. I honestly have no memory of ever drinking water during the years 1974-2000, except the occasional glass with a meal.

On Kili, I have pictures of myself with a small canteen that maybe held the contents of a juice box. And I don’t remember refilling it during the day. I felt kind of yuck at the top of Kili and started obsessively demanding a banana, which I attributed to the altitude, but now I think I was just severely dehydrated. Like for the first 25 years of my life. It’s probably the same reason I got married the first time. The brain just doesn’t work well when starved of moisture.

Lucy was just dehydrated like all humans in olden pre-Stanley Cup times.

These days, like all the healthy cool people, I go nowhere without a big-ass water bottle. You know, in case I accidentally get locked in a public bathroom or get lost in a Target. Or have to walk more than 3 blocks to my car. Or just type too vigorously at my desk. You don’t play around with lost electrolytes. Not if you want to win at life.

For Mt. Kenya, I brought my 2L Camelback bladder. Which is plastic. It’s not a real camel bladder or a real camel back/hump. Although those might have more electrolytes.

I told Sammy at the start that I was taking Diamox. “OK. You will need to drink 3L of water a day instead of 2L,” he instructed. And he wasn’t kidding either. At rest stops, he inspected my bladder (the Camelback one, not my actual bladder). “Drink more,” he would say. “More. Not enough.”

What goes in must come out. And if you are taking a diuretic, it comes out in a flash flood that threatens to sweep you right into the ocean.

And if you are female, this is highly inconvenient. Highly.

Especially above the tree line. I recall huddling with my fellow girl climbers on Kili in a ceremonial Pee Circle to obstruct the views, taking turns squatting in the middle and splashing urine all over everyone’s boots. It was not dignified in the least.

I thought I had cracked the code this time. I discovered they make various contraptions aimed at anatomical urination equality. Basically penis prosthetics.

I decided against this thing

because you would presumably have to wash it after and find some way of hauling it around. Also, its claims of being “more intimate” concerned me, like maybe it would sneak in a Pap smear while you were using it. Or worse.

Instead I went with these seemingly genius items. Same concept, but more compact and disposal. And no claims of intimacy. The Leonardo DiCaprio of female urinals. ¹

I tried one out ahead of time in the comfort of my hotel room, and it worked like a charm. I was exhilarated, like I had just solved gender inequality.

In my mind, I would barely stop to pee with these things, just stick one down my pants at a nice clip and surreptitiously shoot pee into the rapidly passing vegetation. I had bought myself a penis and all the power that comes with it. Next stops were eating more than 1500 calories a day, claiming armrests on a plane, having someone else run my household while I kick ass at my job, and avoiding most sexual assault (assuming the fake penis didn’t get out of line, another reason to opt for the non-intimate model).² I was downright thrilled to repeatedly pee outdoors.

I showed Sammy one of these miraculous, society-changing contraptions. He was intrigued/amused/impressed/terrified. He had never seen or heard of such a thing. “Take some home to your wife, Sammy,” I said. “If you dare.”

I didn’t have to wait long to use one in the wild. Max 20 minutes, because Diamox. I did go behind a bush, I didn’t want to get too cocky (see what I did there). I got out one of my portable penis tubes and unzipped my pants. I was determined to do this like a real man, with my butt fully covered.

I thought I had a good fit going. I was wrong. Pee leaked out around the tube as I frantically readjusted. OK, I thought, my technique needs work. No problem, full urethral manhood could still be mine with some practice.

After another few sips of water, I of course had to pee again. I decided to just pull the pants down this time, which worked better but also negated some of the benefits of having a penis. The goal was to barely absent oneself from polite society in order to empty one’s bladder. To pee as a mere afterthought, barely perceptible to even oneself. “Oh, did I just urinate or is there a hole in my garments? I can’t tell.”

By pee #3, I began to question whether this whole thing was more trouble than it was worth. Getting out my tiny fake penis, positioning it just so, holding it in place, putting it in a ziplock trash bag, which I had to carry around—it was a bit of a routine, especially if I had to go really, really bad, which I increasingly did, as the Diamox laid waste to every drop of moisture in my body and Sammy militantly demanded I replenish it.

Pee #4, I couldn’t wait, I just dropped my pants and squatted, female-like, my dreams of manhood drowning in the streams of pee that collected around my boots. I would never be a man, I would never know those advantages, and pretending I could was just getting me doused in piss.

I decided I was better off accepting reality as it is and doing some female pee expulsion optimization, using physics and gravity and geometry and also a common sense to find the absolute best way of peeing outdoors. Long story short, here is the answer:

You find you a large rock or tree that is on a decent slope. You lean backwards onto it from uphill at a good angle. This lessens the need to squat low, which your already tired quad muscles will appreciate. Then you let it rip. Gravity will take it away and down the hill.

Watch for rock hyraxes. They are actually relatives of elephants but fortunately weigh quite a bit less.

You’re welcome.

The moral of this story is this—and I am not making any commentary whatsoever on transgender people here, so don’t get all righteously indignant on me—men and women are different.³ For starters, we pee differently. We do other things differently, too. Too often we women feel we must imitate men to achieve our goals, because the world has long been arranged by and for men. Which is not fair.

But that’s not going to get us there, because it’s not realistic, but more importantly, it denies a big part of ourselves, our talents, our experience, our wisdom. It ties one of our arms—maybe our best one!— behind our backs.

Sisters, be yourselves, all of yourselves, in all your walks. That’s where any of our power lies, whether we are male or female or cis or trans or a masculine man or a girly girl or something in between. Don’t apologize for yourself and don’t change who you are to fit the world. Make your world fit you by embracing it as you are. It may require some creativity, some effort, some heartbreak and failure even, but it’s going to be better in the end. The world will get better in the end. Because you will change it in the process.

Put the penis tubes away and just drop trou behind a rock.

And if you find yourself unexpectedly running for President of the United States—same goes for you. Let your female flag fly. Let your Black Girl Magic cast its spell. Laugh your full-throated, joyous laugh. Smile at your adorable husband like a schoolgirl. Wear high heels or Converse, whatever your feet feel best in. Be smart AND gorgeous, because you are. Don’t overthink how to be.

And kick some rapist, conman ass with all the strength it’s taken you to get here, with all your might. For all of us.

1. Don’t overthink this metaphor please.

2. Again, do not overthink the Leonardo metaphor. It only half works, if that. I still maintain it is amusing.

3. There is of course a spectrum of gender difference. Don’t make this extremely strained extended metaphor any more difficult than it is.