It wasn’t about needing to pee. Oh no. Peeing when your bladder told you was for lesser men, for weaklings, for those who allowed nature to dictate the terms.

Greg had read an article back in 1994—in Men’s Adventure Weekly, right after the “50 Ways to Cook Roadside Venison” feature—about some Himalayan monks who could slow their heart rate and control all of their bodily functions. That, he decided, was the kind of man he was meant to be. A man of mastery. A man who told his own bladder what was what.

So here he was, standing in the living room, legs subtly crossed in a way that suggested “about to run a marathon” but really meant “two more minutes and something’s going to burst. Wetly.”

His wife glanced up from the couch.
“Are you okay?”
“I’m fine. Just practicing discipline.”
“You’ve been practicing discipline for six hours.”
“Mind over matter, babe. You see, the body is a servant of the mind.”

She stared at him for a long moment, the kind of stare that silently weighed whether it was worth pointing out that the bathroom was literally ten feet away. Then she went back to her book.

Because some lessons aren’t hers to teach.