That time I glued myself to the toilet seat.

I glued myself to the toilet seat this morning.

I’ve heard the stories of frat-boy pranks involving SuperGlue and toilet seats, but never imagined I could accomplish such a feat on my own and in a purely accidental manner.

The story begins with these damned medical devices I have attached to my body. I’m diabetic and wear two separate small devices on my skin that pretend they’re pancreases. These contraptions attach to me much like a miniature IV would. Each one has a small sticky patch, from which protrudes a teeny, tiny needle that is inserted under my skin. One of them goes on my stomach, and hot damn is it unnerving having to shove what feels like searing hot metal into my stomach fat weekly. Damn thing’s like a prison shiv.  

Anyway, these two devices tenaciously cling on to me day-in and day-out. I do have to replace the devices weekly, a production which I dread. Sometimes, however, the sticky patch gives up before its time. These damn things start to lose their will and roll up like linoleum on a humid day. I hate it when they start sagging and hanging off me like some sort of deranged Christmas ornament.

And so, while getting dressed this morning I noticed that my stomach device had given up and was hanging halfway off. Dammmmmmmmit! I knew she wasn’t going to last the day and of course I’d have to take the time to replace her this morning when I was already late.

You see, I’m not a morning person. I always coast into my time-clocked workplace 30 seconds before the deadline. I don’t have time to screw around in the mornings; my routine is planned and executed down to the second. And this morning I was already late. I was sleepy. It was friggen 5:30 a.m. and my brain was still tucked warm in bed. And I was in no mood to prison shiv myself. 

I conceded, though, that this sad stomach-fat clinger needed attention ASAP. Huffing in annoyance, I reached into the bathroom medicine cabinet and grabbed the small, amber vial of medical adhesive called Mastisol. What is Mastisol? Think “KrazyGlue” that happens to be perfectly and medically acceptable to apply to one’s skin if one wishes to semi-permanently cement a small object onto oneself.

I kept one eye on the clock and one eye on my stomach fat as I frantically got to work and twisted off the Mastisol’s black cap. I placed the phial on the bathroom counter as I lifted up my shirt, grabbed for a Q-tip, and dipped it into the foul-smelling orangey liquid. I jabbed the Q-tip into my stomach – a rushed version of the gentle “dabbing” motion recommended by the Mastisol company – and forcefully smashed the limp, hanging device back firmly onto my stomach. With a choice epithet uttered to induce speed and efficacy, I waited the three required seconds and then confirmed that the device was now firmly back in place. “I just might make it on time after all!” I thought. Victorious, I madly reached for the bottle sitting on the counter so I could replace the cap.

And then it happened.

In my haste I knocked over the entire open vial of Mastisol. Two years’ worth of viscous, clinging, sticky super-adhesive spilled out, over the counter, down the side of the cabinet, and splashed onto the thankfully closed toilet lid. It continued to drizzle down the side of the toilet and onto my magazine rack on the floor below, defiling the cover of my newest Martha Stewart Living.

Fuuuuuuuuudge! You have got to be kidding me! I surveyed the mess with disbelief and rage. I checked the clock – I was now a full minute late, but conceded that I had to clean the mess up now or else the bathroom would be permanently schellacked in this stuff.

In a flash, I unrolled a huge wad of toilet paper and began to dab at the puddles.

Yes, yes, I know, you’re probably shouting “No! No, don’t do it!”, but I already told you my brain was still asleep in bed. It was too late. I did do it and the inevitable happened. The bargain-brand toilet paper sopped up about approximately three percent of the liquid and then did what bargain-brand TP does: it disintegrated into a chunky, syrupy, gluey clusterfudge.

I looked down to see my hands entirely covered in gobs of sticky disintegrated toilet paper and glue. I tried to pick off the larger gobs, but only proceeded to nearly glue my hands together.

Sweet beezus! I ripped my hands apart as my eyes frantically flew to the clock. I was now two minutes late, so I made the executive decision to abandon the mess and pick off the toilet paper once I got to work. I’d just get on with my day and face the mess when I returned home from work, hopefully not fired due to the fact that I arrived late and covered in toilet paper. I did, however, run the risk of having our bathroom permanently adorned with hardened chunks of toilet paper. Ah well.

All I had to do now was my required last-minute going-to-the-bathroom, and I’d be out the door! I went to unfasten my trousers, realizing too late that I had now glued my hands to the waistband of my pants. Apparently the longer this stuff is exposed to air, the quicker reacting it becomes. I pried my hands off my pants, discovering what it might feel like to rip off 3,000 Band-Aids at once.   

Sighing at the gobs of toilet paper I had just transferred to my pants, I sat down.

Again, I must reiterate, I was essentially sleep walking. I wasn’t thinking, and I didn't look down at the seat, and yes, I had just glued myself to the toilet seat. It seems that cagey Mastisol had slithered its way across the closed toilet lid, down the crack between the seat and the lid, and had spread onto a large portion of the seat. The very seat I was now sitting on.

I froze, panicked. I could feel my skin fusing to the seat, tighter and tighter with each passing second. I tried to tentatively stand up in an effort to counter the fusion, but it was already too late, I was stuck. Stuck to my own toilet seat in the darkness of an October morning.

Sweet Louise almighty, how was I going to get out of this one? I considered spending the whole day on the John; might be better than showing up to work late with a mangled ass that was missing a choice chunk. I considered waiting until my husband came home to discover me, numb-legged and grim-faced, just like Danny Glover in Lethal Weapon 2. Mike would save the day, just like Mel Gibson, and pry me off! This thought made me chuckle; and so, I sat glued onto my toilet seat at 5:33 in the morning for a while, laughing like an imbecile.

Ah, forget it, I finally conceded. I’m not going to let a little thing like my ass epidermis stop me. So, in a Herculean effort of both physical and psychological will, I heaved myself upward in one giant leap. A ripping sound cut through the morning air, rivaled only by my piercing howl of pain.

Blood was shed, a layer or two of skin was left behind on the seat, but, my dear reader, my ass tasted sweet freedom!!!!