I sit down for breakfast with most of my ten roommates at the Boston Market on University Avenue near the University of Minnesota campus. We leave the gray drizzle and get a table big enough to seat our group of college undergrads, all nursing hangovers. 

No hangover cure works like a cheap, greasy breakfast—at least, not one I know of. A Greek yogurt parfait, half a grapefruit, and a green smoothie may also do the trick. Still, I prefer a breakfast skillet with questionable hollandaise dumped on the top, which pushes me toward the line of bowel incontinence. 

Looking back through my mind’s eye, it’s hard to believe any of the guys seated at that table have become successful and fathers. 

This was not a lazy breakfast. We had business that needed our attention.

The weekend before the final exams for the spring semester has been special on the U of M campus since 1942. However, it wasn’t until the early otts that the University began to book bands and reserve a place for them to perform. The names of the artists booked have historically been underwhelming, but I wouldn’t know, as parties are held all over campus to celebrate spring jam for the bargain price of five dollars per solo cup. 

For my roommates and me, the coup de gras of parties was held in the parking lot behind the houses at what some people called “11th & Uni” (11th Street and University Avenue) while others called it “10th & 4th” (10th Avenue SE and SE 4th Street). Neither was better than the other as it got you to the same place. On Spring Jam weekend, that parking lot would host the keg race.

If you’re unfamiliar with a keg race, I’ll explain the rules, but first, what is drinking responsibly like?

The rules of a keg race are simple:

1. Assemble a team of seasoned binge drinkers.

2. Buy a keg and tap (*Note: The tap can be rented, but you should be aware you may forfeit a pretty hefty security deposit if you don’t return it to the liquor store in working order).

3. Drink until the keg is empty. If you are the first to complete this task, you are rewarded with nothing but pride(?). 

Our business at breakfast was the keg race—specifically, how to win it. We had been talking through strategies over the week, but nothing had piqued our interest. 

“What will really slow us down is having to piss all the time,” someone said.

“Well, there is no getting around the fact that drinking beer makes you have to pee,” another of my roommates countered.

Do you ever have an idea that is equal parts genius and stupidity? An idea whose mixture is such that voicing it is a no-lose proposition because you will either be lauded as a forward thinker or everyone thinks you are telling a hilarious joke? 

“We could pee and drink simultaneously if we wore diapers,” I said.

Everyone looked at me, processing what I had just said. Then, the discussion started with an even split between pro and anti-diaper people, and that is how it remained until we realized we could turn it into a theme with nothing more than a handful of white t-shirts and a black permanent marker. 

“The front could say, ‘Boxers or Briefs,’ and on the back, we could each have a letter of Depends.”

Bringing the shirts into the mix transformed the idea from strategy to costume. The group unanimously agreed we had found the plan that would win us the event. Some of our mathematically inclined roommates even calculated how much time it would save our team by remaining within pouring distance of the keg.  Needless to say, the data strongly suggested we had uncovered something revolutionary. I remember thinking, this is what the Wright Brothers must have felt like when they designed their first successful glider.

The day of the keg race arrived with warm weather and clear skies. We put on our, er, uniforms and made our way to the battlefield. We placed our keg in the first open space and readied for battle. One of the benefits of a keg race is that the only requirement of the playing surface is to be level enough to allow the keg to stand upright. 

As we walked between a couple of houses into the rear parking lot, it was clear the keg race would not be the sole event of the day. A wrestling ring stood lazily in the center of the parking lot. The ropes dangled like forgotten Christmas lights hanging from a deck in July. 

Our plan was to drink beer slightly faster than a typical Saturday afternoon while relying on the time-saving secret weapons hugging our loins to save us the trouble of walking away in search of a bathroom. Other teams decided speed was the only solution, so they brought beer bongs to speed up consumption. 

Race officials positioned a large packing barrel in the center of the racing teams. This barrel was specifically designed to catch and hold at least fifty gallons of vomit, and it was used. I witnessed people vomit and immediately chug another beer. Countless college students threw up the foamy cold beer that had only made it halfway down their esophagus. 

So immature, I thought as I tipped my red solo cup upward, finishing my beer in my adult diaper.

Shortly into the race, it was time to test the strategy. The warmth of my urine saturated the absorbent core of the diaper, and I’d be lying if I claimed it didn’t feel pleasant, like easing into a warm bath. 

A short time later, a teammate approached me looking anxious, “I don’t think I can do it.”

“Do what?” I asked.

“Use the diaper.”

“It’s what they’re made for. I’ve already used mine, and,” I paused waiting for the flow of urination, “I’m using it again right now as we speak, you’ll be fine.“

“Fine,” he paused momentarily, “I’m going.”

“See, it’s kind of nice isn..”

“Goddammit,” my teammate said, looking down at his shoes. 

I followed his gaze downward as a small amount of pee trickled down his right leg. 

“I didn’t think it was possible to use a diaper wrong,” I gasped with laughter. 

The race went on, and, as in so many sports, speed killed. Our strategy had failed, and we were not victorious that day.  

My Own Worst Enemy by Lit played as I allowed myself to take in the sights of the field of play while I stood in an adult diaper sagging from repeated use. To my left, another person was using the vomit barrel. Behind him, the backyard wrestling continued, with one wrestler bleeding from his forehead. Behind me, a girl sobbed about her boyfriend talking to another girl. A light breeze carried on the warm May air blew through the parking lot, reminding me that the urine in my diaper was now cold and uncomfortable. 

I made my way to change out of my racing uniform when I came across another of my roommates. This was the roommate who was the physical manifestation of my worst impulses. 

“Where are you going?”

“I’m going to change. My diaper is about to fall off,” I said.

“We should probably change into another one of these, right?” He asked, holding up the box of diapers with two more diapers left.

“Yes,” I said without hesitation.

We went inside the house to use the bathroom for the first time that day. The bathroom was on the second floor, and we waited in a short line until it was my roommate’s turn. He walked through the doorway and turned to me, “You’re not going to change me?” 

“Change you?”

“Well, yeah. I thought you were going to change my diaper,” he said, looking at me as though I was his father breaking my promise to play catch in the backyard.

A smile formed on my face as I said, “Yeah, I’ll change your diaper.”

We entered the cramped bathroom. My roommate lay lazily on the floor, put his feet straight in the air, and said, “Change me.”

“You need to lift up your butt,” I instructed through laughter as I crouched down, attempting to pull the diaper over his hips and up off his legs. As the diaper went past his knees, the heavy inside of the diaper inverted. It must’ve weighed three pounds. 

“How many times did you go?” I asked.

“Oh, I lost track, but you are definitely going to need to wipe me.”

“Wipe you?”

“Yeah, haven’t you ever changed a diaper before?”

As I leaned to grab the toilet paper roll sitting on the toilet tank, I heard a light knock on the door, followed by the click of the latch. I turned to look over my left shoulder as three girls opened the bathroom door, eyes wide and jaws hanging slack as they tried to understand what they were witnessing.

My roommate propped himself on his right elbow to glimpse the girls who had walked in and said, “We’ll be out in just a minute.”

The girls slammed the door quickly, and laughter erupted on the other side of the door. 

The embarrassment was too great, and I needed to explain. I left the bathroom, but the girls who walked in were nowhere to be found. I never got a chance to explain what was going on. I think about those girls often and wonder what the scene looked like from their perspective. 

My roommate left the bathroom after a moment. “Thanks for your help,” he said, adjusting his fresh diaper while handing me mine. 

I went back into the bathroom, locking the door this time. I changed into my new diaper and left the bathroom. As I walked out, my roommate stood beside an open window overlooking the back parking lot. I saw the party, and the wrestling was still in full swing. 

As I walked toward the stairs, my roommate said, “Should we go out there?”

“Where do you think I’m going?”

“No,” he said, gesturing to the open window, “out there.”

The window opened out onto the roof without a screen. My roommate wanted to go on the roof. It’s tough to say how many beers I consumed at that point in the day, so it isn’t shocking that I made a responsible decision and said, “Yes.”

I’m unsure if it was because we went on the roof or just a song added to a long playlist, but it wasn’t long before we were doing the “Macarena” on the roof in our diapers. 

I wore my diaper for the rest of that day, though I didn’t use it until the night’s end. 

Many people will roll their eyes at this behavior, which they find immature and reckless. I will not argue that point. I am well aware of the dangers of binge drinking and climbing out onto roofs. I understand that wearing a diaper for the sole purpose of drinking more beer is concerning behavior.

However, that day played out like a scene from a stereotypical college movie. It is a scene you would see and think there is no way that would happen at a real college, but it did. 

People ask, “Wouldn’t you be concerned if this was one of your children’s stories?”

My answer is the same every single time:

Depends.

Cheers.