Potty on Duty

All of you I hope are aware that I am not one to point out the differences between myself and my counterparts (male officer) however, in this one instance I think pointing out the following difference warrants being written about.
As a rookie female officer I learned very quickly that I had to "pace" myself. I had to learn how much water was too much water, how much gatorade would have a disturbing effect or god forbid the soda effect.
Let me begin by explaining the ritual of the male officer potty break. This ritual will take very little time or typing. My counterpart announces proudly "It's my potty break" off he goes. Into the bathroom, any bathroom will do, from truck stop to the cleanest hospital bathroom. He has no sense of discretion. He enters into the room, looks the door, and takes his stance. I have found he uses various words to describe his next action, he unzips gently of course, haven't we all heard "those" unzip quick stories!! He may unfurl, unfold, gently, yank, grab, take out his most prized possession. He tinkles, he drips, he shakes and then he replaces his little baby, bald sparrow, with big black closed eyeballs into its nest, nestled gently back into its cushisy little place of warmth. Zip up, gently of course, open the door, check to make sure no dripplees and off to the next adventure. This takes a mire 3 minutes, Yep, I timed one of them. Strictly as a investigative piece of information. Now lets examine the ritual of a female officer.
I will use my own experience as an example, my stories seem to be about me.
Female officers start out working with inept equipment for the ritual we are speaking of. First the gun belt, it is made for male officers, it is stiff, (unbending) it sits on our hip bones, well it sits on Lt.,Sgt,officer Cankles hips, like it does mine... his ankles, hips and family jewels all look odd to me. Anyway, I have to wear two belts, drawers (girl drawers, not boxers like some girls do)tee shirt, bulletproof vest, work shirt, pants, and then the two belts held together with keepers. So you can see the technical aspect of this situation beginning to unfold. Because I failed to pace myself, I begin to realize that I may have to tinkle.. oh please anything but that, gas, indigestion, maybe even crumbly tummy, but not that bladder issue. I think of my failed relationships, my woman crazed son, my hurt knee, or even the death wrecks of days gone by. Nope, not working, still got to tinkle.. I tell everyone I work around, for god sake don't make me laugh, run or hickup. They find this a challenge at times. Need I tell them my bladder has had a baby sit on it, 15 beers poured into it and several years added to its inception! Oh they love to make me laugh, Lt. A and Sandy! My mind races.. where is the cleanest bathroom. One stop, nahhh, 7-11 maybe, JJ's heavens no... ok I'll just race to the police department, I call dispatch and explain to them the severity of the problem. I have waited till there is no room for error or calls. I speed to the bathroom, it's not much cleaner but its safe, I convince myself. I park my car, I get out rather slowly, although speed would be warranted in this case, it is difficult to walk fast when you have your knee's stuck together at the knobby as if they are made out of barbie doll material, and your kegeling as you walk. Please, please if there is a god, don't let me sneeze, poot or laugh or I will have to go home and change. I reach for the door knob, it is slow motion, I think to myself if Linda is in that damn bathroom I am going to use the men's room, they never sit anyway. Ahh, it's unoccupied. I jerk open the door, I scour the room looking for obvious signs of coodies.. girls you know what I am talking about. I then have to work a miracle. I decide that my baby girl gunbelt should not be put on the floor, but what do I do with that unbendable leather size 30 gun belt with all kinds of junk such as tazers, guns and radio that has to be left on during this entire process. I know I will put it in the sink. I wipe the sink down, I begin to do a little dance. Time is a tickin!!! I have to get these stupid keepers off. Why do I wear three of them? I am beginning to chunk the keepers, sink hell, floor is good. I check my radio.. all I need is to advertise my bladder condition. I am trying not to touch anything but me and mine. Coodies! Keepers off.. now got to get this 100lbs of pressure buckle unlatched. Now its critical. This stupid hook, I swear to god, I am going to explode, I begin to sweat. I talk to myself.. got to get this buckle unhooked, got to get.. ahh its unhooked, thank god again. Oh now, did I key up that radio, listen, what the hell, why are they calling 234 I told dispatch I am in the bathroom. They sound like they are snickering while calling me. I can't answer them, it will echo in here, wait till I get out of this coodie room. I bypass the sink idea, things will be worse if I take anymore time. I strip off that second belt, and then there are those three layers to wade through. I have that down to an art, but in the beginning I think I weewee'd on my tee shirt tail once or twice. I get to the important part of the drill. WAIT, as all women know, whether you are a dirty doper or a pristine prissy girl, never, never sit down. Great, now I have to keep my work shirt tail out of the toilet, my tee shirt from being drippled on and my drawers, well they have fallen to my tactical boots and I am in a half squadded position. I am trying to aim to the center, not fall onto the coodie potty, watch the door, listen to the dispatchers giggle and pray my radio mike is not getting a staph infection. I manage to manipulate all these factors. It is almost like a rush, when the big moment arrives and passes. Then I realize I missed a step in my ritual, .. where is the toilet paper, dear god, no toilet paper, there has got to be a paper towel or toilet paper. Where in this coodie room would you hide the paper. There on top of the girl products container... thank you sweet Jesus. I waddle to the new roll, its only 2 feet away, but one has to use caution, no dribblies.... Why must this be so hard. I finally, complete all the ritualistic steps. I now must bend over, pick up a 8lbs gun belt, hoist it onto the limited amount of hips, I poke my butt out, let the gun belt rest on my poked out butt, I move all the stuff around then have to cram all my beauty into all those layers, make sure all is tucked in straight, keep the second belt velcroded, and then that stupid buckle. 234, 234... copy call. Damn it, they are not snickering... I get the buckle connected, the zipper zipped, no slow zipper for me (I have worked 4 hrs, with an unzipped zipper, and that was with baby blue drawers..nice uhh)I wash my hands, although they touched nothing but toilet paper, I swipe at my radio mike and out the door I go, throwing the paper towel into the trash just before the door slams shut on my boot shoe string, I nearly break my neck. This ritual that takes my counterparts 3 minutes, has been fine tuned to a mire 6 minutes. Yes, 6 minutes, from start to finish, no rest for the weary. So, back to my original statement. Female officers learn early in their careers that a potty break on duty is a treacherous situation. Later chicks and chicketts