Sometimes I hadn’t grasped my own limitations until confronting failure. This posting had started with inebriation on a dark summer night gone by. That’s how my memory had remembered a whimsical wager over drinking a few ounces of my urine. I really hadn’t remembered the escalating stakes that evening, only this loss. With the loss dawning on my mind, I had confronted the dubious act. Swinging my head back, I had let the solution splash on my lips and tongue. I had recalled swallowing urgently in hopes of avoiding the body warm temperature and any lingering flavor. In sharing this story, most fair minded people had responded with visceral response of cringing, if not outright frowning; however, I had luckily experienced only a colorless fluid with little aftertaste.
The importance of tale was reconciling the concept of urophagia. Some folks had done it through history in surviving nature or indulging in personal fetishes. For myself, back in October of last year, I had juxtaposed myself between the pride of finishing a morning run and extreme dehydration. The late morning Florida heat had overwhelmed my body with cramping from my calves, neck and lats muscles. The sun had beat down on my increasingly slowing position. Entering the final four miles of this excursion, I had reflected upon my number of impromptu restroom breaks along the route. My friend finishing an hour before me, I had wanted to go on for ego. Our previous outing, I was fairly fatigued yet, able to push to the end. This jog, I was encountering broader muscle exhaustion, compensating for a new knee injuries and no alternate means of hydration. I had additionally lacked a phone, a wallet, or pickup protocol. Painfully walking a brisk pace, I had wanted to quit so badly. I had resigned myself to marching on with the mindset of “Whatever it takes!”
Embracing my night of urophagia, I had headed to an oncoming Porto Toilet filling an empty water bottle. Heading back under the sunlight I had conceded to thirst. This moment of sober reality had manifested itself with the twist of a plastic bottle cap. Moving the bottle to my mouth, I had thought,”Was I committed?” The answer was all about pride. Finishing a quick gulp of the fluid, I had found enough physical and mental strength until the next water fountain. A few minutes afterward, I had started my incline toward a crosswalk. Like magic on cue, my friend had ironically appeared around the next corner with a big smile and a jug of Gatorade. I had brought him up to speed on recent events. His response was a general sense of shock and amusement. I had hardly cared. I had proved to myself a willingness to go further than the next man, perhaps stepping over a line. The line was crossing into something personal, real, inside me, maybe “What’s inside you?”