In what some might dub a hilarious–and I might call horrifying–turn of events, I was convinced (read: coerced) to experiment with wearing adult diapers for a few days, financed via Venmo donations from all-too-willing friends. This unfortunate arrangement was crafted in the spring of 2017, and I had figured that by midway through this semester my devious friends had forgotten about the deal. I figured wrong. Last week I had the immense misfortune of receiving a text in my group chat with those schemers that was more terrifying than any Saw movie: “Remember that time we all said we’d pitch in a few dollars to get [Your Favorite Rib Writer] to wear adult diapers for a few days and write an article about it?” My heart jumped directly into my throat and my eyes popped so far out they almost touched my glasses. I had prayed to my agnostic God for months that somehow they’d keep me safe from this embarrassing predicament. I asked for nothing more than a quick bout of short term amnesia to wash over my friends, but alas, my wish was not granted. And so, on a brisk Sunday evening, I headed into the depths of CVS in regretful search for Depends.
I strolled through the aisles, scanning for my desired product: fluffy diapers to swaddle myself in. I quickly realized that the CVS on Thayer, primarily trafficked by college students, didn’t have products to cater towards the older generations (a demographic that this fateful purchase apparently placed me into). Panicking, I asked a store attendant if they had any Depends. Her response was just a look of utter confusion. I rephrased my question using ‘adult diapers,’ and she barely suppressed a snort, telling me they didn’t have those but that they had baby diapers. I quickly clarified that I needed them for a project, which seemed to lessen her judgements a tad as she led me to the proper aisle. So, I purchased Huggies (with Lightning McQueen artfully doodled on the front) and headed back to my dorm.
Surprisingly, my hips have grown since the time I was a toddler into ‘birthing hips’ that could probably pop out a nicely grown toddler. Consequently, those Huggies were a snuuuuug fit—so snug that I had to strengthen the bond with excessive amounts of tape so as to avoid a fashion faux-pas. How horrible it would be if my diaper came undone! Major fashion no-no! After finally figuring out this tape situation I texted my group chat a lovely mirror pic of me in my diaper as proof I was following through on the agreement, and then headed off to the Rock.
I was convinced everyone could see how I was waddling back and forth or could hear the noise of my legs rubbing against my diaper as I walked. But, considering I don’t think anyone would ever imagine that a 20 year-old girl is wearing a diaper, those noises and odd shuffling would likely be passed off as something else–maybe a lil too much effort on leg day, some hip new pant material that is just breaking onto the scene, or genuine ants in my pants. I settled into a desk and began working. Everything was as normal: I was begrudgingly typing a paper and taking water breaks to distract myself and wake myself up. After finishing my entire 32 oz. water bottle I noticed that familiar ‘gotta go’ feeling, but I didn’t feel like walking alllll the way downstairs to use the restroom. But Aha! I didn’t have to do that, I could just pee directly onto Lightning McQueen. And so I did.
No such event that I have experienced thus far in my life is nearly as satisfying as my experience of pissing in a diaper was. It brought me such an intense rush of power knowing that I was urinating in the middle of the Rock and nobody was the wiser. This was an utter reversion back to toddler days, and I frankly kind of liked it. My urine experienced immediate absorption by the superior technology of the modern day diaper. Unfortunately, this euphoric experience was cut short by my sudden realization that just as my hips have grown since infancy, so has my bladder size. There’s no possible way that this Huggies can handle my 32 oz. of pee. Frantically, I waddled to the basement bathroom, finished my pee on the toilet, and extensively wrapped my diaper in toilet paper before depositing it in the trash can. If you saw a diaper in the Rock bathroom, my b.
The following day, I decided to test out if these Huggies could handle the mother lode: a full stream of my piss (don’t worry I never pooped in the diapers–I clearly have standards!). I didn’t want to ruin any of my pants and highly didn’t want to stain any of them in public. So, I carried out this experiment in the comfort of my dorm room while my roommate was in class so she wouldn’t have to witness my antics. I put on a fresh diaper and proceeded to pee. At around 75% of full bladder disposal, I noticed that some of my pee was not being absorbed, and instead was collecting into a tiny swimming pool in my diaper. I was horrified and threw out the ineffective diaper.
As exciting as my first blissful pisses since infancy were, they made me realize in a convoluted way, that as much as I may want to avoid being a genuine adult and instead would prefer to remain a child without responsibilities, I cannot. I am no longer mentally or physically equipped to exist as a child does. I cannot fit into a diaper, and neither can my piss. I cannot pretend to not have responsibilities, because I do. I can, however, eat apple sauce and feign that it’s baby food as I labor through problem sets. Best of both worlds?
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