Apparently, one couldn’t. The restroom was locked, and gatekeepers said no. What was a leaky man to do? Go with the flow…into an airsickness bag. And that’s what the guy did. Mr. Pee Body let loose in the barf bag. Discreetly, he claimed.

How discreet can anyone be in a flying sardine can? Mr. Weak Bladder most likely was placed in a seat similar to The Big Guy on our last flight: sandwiched between a sumo wrestler wannabe and a mom trying to keep a screaming toddler on her lap and off his. Not exactly private quarters. Besides, since when are airsickness bags waterproof?

What I don’t understand is how a man couldn’t “hold it” for just one hour. Road trips with The Big Guy have me believing all men are camels, storing up for Indy-like pit stops once every eight hours. He screeches to a halt outside a porta-can and we jump in, jump out and hit the road in less time than that guy on the radio can tell us how he’s gonna save us money. Maybe Mr. Leaky was a woman disguised as a man. Even The Big Guy bought that theory.

“Hey, I bet Tinkle Toes Rose could out-whiz even you,” The Big Guy chuckled. I can’t see what’s so humorous about a serious affliction. A lifelong affliction. Sure, some people assume that because the Contessa has reached an age when Early Bird specials hold more appeal than Happy Hour, she’s next in line to take over June Allyson’s spot as Depends pitchwoman. Don’t count on it. Contessa doesn’t do perky. Besides, that NASA space momma who drove warp-speed cross-country without a potty break is a shoe-in.

Truth be told, I’ve always had bladder issues. As a kid on the playground, I’d lock hands with my teammates, all of us in a line facing another row of kids, and someone would holler “Red Rover, Red Rover, send the Contessa right over.’’ Those little snips laughed and my teammates groaned as I hobbled forward, legs crossed and knees locked together. When all your energy is spent trying to keep the barrel from going over the falls, there is no breaking through the line. I was a guaranteed prisoner. Even worse was hide-and-seek. With everyone secure in their spots, I’d hop up and It Kid would yell, “rain delay, rain delay.” No wonder team captains fought over me – for their last pick. Sack races? Out of the question.

Rather than wallow in self-pity, I embrace my disability in the hopes other women do the same. No longer do I ride aimlessly in a golf cart looking for the sole women’s bathroom. I march up to the nearest house and call out “Hey, it’s me, Fairway Flo, I need to go.” My head doesn’t hang in shame when I jump out of the minivan in the carpool pick-up line to run into the school bathroom. I can even block out honking horns and shouts of “move it knock-knees.” You’d think after double-duty diaper-changing with the twins, Pinot & Grigio could be more encouraging.

And the next time I board a one-hour flight? I’ll check to see if the bathroom door is locked – and if the guy sitting next to me is collecting airsickness bags. One small leak for woman, one giant gush for womankind.

Danielle Schaaf is the author of “Don’t Chew Jesus!” and can be contacted at hauteflashcontessa@yahoo.com. For more of the Contessa, visit www.hauteflashcontessa.blogspot.com.