Controlling the Bodily Fluids

I was typing away at my computer when I first noticed it. I walked upstairs and mentioned it to my wife.

 "I wet my pants."

"You what?"

"I wet my pants."

She laughed at me. A cold, heartless laugh to match the cold, wet patch on my jeans. It's not a funny subject, the unintended release of bodily fluids. It can be quite traumatic in social situations.
 
The Tegaderm patch on my hip had been holding back whatever fluid was oozing out of my road rash, but it had finally reached its capacity. I hadn't bothered to drain out any of that stuff, since it was mostly clear and I figured it was probably better left in there. The fluid disagreed, and went about digging a tunnel hidden behind a Rita Hayworth poster. Once free of confinement, it made it's escape to my jeans, which apparently is like Zihuatanejo for road rash oozings.
 
"Gross", my sympathetic wife said.
 
I don't really care, since my rapidly advancing age and my various children have progressively robbed me of most of my capacity for shame. Now, instead of the red-faced horror I once exhibited, my reactions tend to alternate between resignation and irrational rage at random targets. I think that's called maturity. Or dementia. I forget which.
 
With my impending beat-down at the Tour of Fairbanks days away, I'm hoping the bruises will fade, the aches will subside, and the ooze will do whatever it is that ooze does to heal my road rash sufficiently so that I don't need to peruse the incontinence section of the grocery store to avoid further releases.
 
Either way, my wife will laugh at me.

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