P(ee) is for Preakness

If you never went to the Preakness Stakes in Baltimore before 2009 when they banned BYOB, then you pretty much missed out on the greatest event of your entire existence. Apparently there is also horse racing going on at Pimlico, but you’d never know it, considering people line up before 7:00am with backpacks filled with alcohol and funnels, massive coolers of melting ice, and everything from dollies to Red Flyer wagons piled high with Jenga towers of beers. All the girls wear cute, summer dresses, which by the end of the day are completely slathered in mud and vomit and various other bodily excretions. Guys are shirtless by ten and sunburnt by noon and peeing just about anywhere. It couldn’t be more disgusting. Or more glorious.

The second time I went to Preakness I met a bunch of my guy friends at the entrance to the track, and, as usual, I was the only girl in the group. We were lugging folding stadium chairs, snacks, and our weight in the High Life, and when they opened the gates to the infield, my face was promptly mashed into the hairy back of my already-shirtless friend: there was a crowd push as if we had somehow been transported to a middle school girl convention at a Justin Bieber concert. Soon enough though we were setting up shop right by the fence with my friends’ old fraternity and even more guys, all of whom considered me just another Bro.

Knowing that none of these dudes were remotely interested in me, and not being able to bear the thought of ruining a perfectly adorable dress, I’d gone totally redneck and worn my overalls. Being deemed entirely undesirable wasn’t exactly a newsflash though: my undergraduate career was essentially spent in a fraternity basement, as literally the only girl in attendance, and getting hit on not a single time. It was initially disconcerting, but over time I got used to hearing the phrase “Sasi doesn’t count; she’s not a real girl.” Usually it was fun being just another one of the guys, but sometimes it resulted in some unsavory experiences, and treatment to which no other girl on the planet would ever have to succumb. Preakness naturally became some such instance.

A lot of insanity happens at Preakness, from the port-o-potty races (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IIcyFSYhvV4), to the mud wrestling in the inflatable kiddie pools, to the general debauchery of flinging full beer cans at the boys who mount the tracker trailers parked in the infield or the girls who stupidly scale the shoulders of some dumb dude they most certainly will never see again and bear their saggy chests for all to view. As you can imagine, with tens of thousands of people drinking for close to twelve hours in a relatively confined space, the need to pee becomes apparent early on. The port-o-potties are located in the middle of the infield though, and it’s a pretty long trek to get there, no matter where you’re camped out. As a result, the girls take the hike, and as mentioned before, the boys pee, well, anywhere. 

That year, since we were sitting next to the fence and the track, all my dude friends unabashedly peed through the chicken wire, while I whined about how they had it so easy when it came to relieving themselves; just the thought of having to eventually brave the overflowing toilet bowls and lack of Purell at the port-o-potty station made me queasy. But then someone came up with a genius idea, one they wouldn’t have dared suggest to a “real” girl: several guys would form a small circle around me, their backs to me, pinky-promise not to peek, and let me do my business. Not a soul would see and I could avoid the port-o-potties. Hooray!

But let’s take a moment to discuss how gullible I am: I will believe anything. It’s embarrassing, really, especially when two years ago my friends once informed me that Webster’s was removing the word “Gullible” from their dictionary...and I earnestly asked whether or not it was true. So when all these guys pledged their allegiance to my honor and my need to pee, I didn't think twice. How kind of them to offer such a courteous service! I let them form their circle, and began to take my overalls off (it was here where I finally realized why all these girls were wearing dresses, most likely sans undies). But as I’m sure you’ve already guessed and clearly I did not, as soon as I had my overalls unhitched, each boy in the circle took one giant step forward. There I was, fully exposed, squatting above a fluffy tuft of grass in my panties with my overalls around my ankles. Thanks, guys. That was marvelous.

Eventually, I couldn’t hold it in any longer. I had to go. This was far into the afternoon, and people were now stumbling around in various degrees of nakedness and intoxication. I announced my departure, and in the first show that I was anything but just another Frat Bro, my friend Jeremy chivalrously said he’d take the excursion with me. We brought a few beers for the road, and set out, dodging drunken grandmas and trying not to step on those passed out in puddles of mud, sweat, tears, and booze. We were halfway there when a guy, shirtless, in cargo shorts and Rainbow flip-flops (typical), staggered in my direction. He stopped when we got close, teetered back and forth, looked me straight in the eyes, took out his junk, and peed, right there. On. My. Feet.

Jeremy and I stared back at this guy for a few seconds, both of us downright mystified. What is the proper response when, in a massively public forum, someone pees on you? Was I some sort of slick, red fire hydrant? Did I bear a striking resemblance to the average porcelain throne? Was there just something about me that broadcasted to the universe that I enjoyed being peed upon? (For the record: I don’t.) After several seconds of shocked silence, Jeremy treated me like any other male friend and instead of defending me in some way--like perhaps telling the guy you just don’t pee on strangers, let alone female strangers--he doubled over in laughter, fell to the ground, and writhed in hysterics in the mud, unable to breathe or believe that I literally just got peed on. 

When we got back to our area, Jeremy instantly told everyone what had gone down, sparing no details. I was sort of glad he did: there was no way anyone would have believed me had I not had an eyewitness. The wet-naps had long since been used to wipe off cell phones and my friends’ sticky nipples (don’t ask), so I poured a beer on my foot, hoping it would at least semi-sanitize the situation, while guys slapped me on my sunburnt back and roared with laughter: "Dude, that's so funny!" Not a single syllable of concern passed their lips. Then again, why would it? I wasn't a "real" girl anyway. All in all, it was a day to remember, but let’s just say neither I nor my flip-flops will ever fully recover.

8:00am (Note the peeing perpetrator in the background.)

And here's a bonus one for you, that only vaguely explains the lack of wet-naps...