I was ten minutes away from the hotel I would be staying at that night. I felt I could make it. If I just paced myself, loosened my seat belt, and relaxed, I would be ok.
Within a mile, those ten minutes promised to turn into an hour as I hit wall to wall traffic. Regardless of whether it was caused my an accident, road work, or a massive whale rescue, there was no doubt about it: I would surely piss my pants before I made it to the hotel.
I still had options though. I just needed to think. I could see an exit up ahead, but it didn't seem to lead to anywhere constructive. I decided to pass it up at the last moment, hoping for another exit soon. My hopes were dashed when I saw a sign that notified me the next exit would not be for another three miles.
I thought of pulling my car over. However, with no bushes to run into and traffic as it was, I would be performing for an audience of about a hundred or so. No go.
It was then that I began eying the two empty Gatorade bottles sitting next to me. I felt like a graffiti artist looking at a newly built retention wall, or Da Vinci staring at a huge block of marble.
Without further ado, I put my faith in my tinted windows and got down to business as my car crawled along I-35.
For fear of overflow, I had to switch bottles halfway through. It was tricky, but it worked. Not a drop was spilled, I think.
p.s. If you take a gander at the picture, you'll notice that I pride myself on staying fully hydrated.
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