Before you think I've got it all figured out, let me tell you where I came from.

The year was 1998.

I was in London, seeing a man I was head-over-heels in love with. The problem was he was hyper-critical of everything about me - my job, weight, my clothes.

I had crippling self-esteem issues. I felt shy, awkward, and terrified that I was borin.

So, like millions of people, I used wine as my armor.

I drank to feel witty. I drank to feel witty. I drank to feel sexy. I drank to numb the voice in my head that whispered I wasn't good enough.

One evening, we went out to a chic, crowded restaurant. I was a nervous wreck, so I started knocking back the glasses of dry while wine as fast as the waiter could pour them.

Three...four...five glasses deep.

Halfway through the meal, I excused myself and stumbled toward the restroom in a drunken daze.

I pushed open the cubicle door, spun around, pulled down my trousers, and sat down.

Ahhh. Sweet relief.

Except...something was terribly wrong.

I felt a warm, burning liquid flooding across my underwear. Then soaking into my thighs.

Then pooling into the fabric of my brand-new, expensive white designer jeans.

It took my booze-soaked brain a horrifying five seconds to realize what had happened.

The heavy toilet seat lid was down.

The urine was bouncing violently off the hard lid, drenching my clothes, running down my shins, and pooling directly inside my shoes.

My feet were literally swimming in my own wine-warm urine.

Panic hit me like a sledgehammer.

I stood up, shaking violently. I tore sheets of brown paper towels off the dispenser, frantically dabbing at my saturated jeans. It was completely useless. From the waist to mu ankles, I was soaked to the bone.

I couldn't hide in the cubicle forever. My boyfriend was waiting.

I had to do walk of shame through that elegant dining room.

I wrapped my coat around my waist, tried to hold my head high, and crept back to our table. I whispered that I felt sick and needed to leave immediately.

He stood up, put his arm around my waist to help me... and his hand landed directly on the soaking wet denim.

He pulled his hand back. He looked at his fingers. Then he looked up into my eyes .

There was no excuse. No Lie I could invent.

He knew. And I knew he knew.

I wanted the restaurant floor to swallow me whole.

I never saw him again after that night.

For weeks, I cried myself to sleep in utter shame and humiliation. But once the tears dried, a cold resolve took hold inside my chest.