Aligned & Awake: Two Times Travel Tried to Kill My Dignity

True stories from the road where laughter was the only respectable response left.

Aligned & Awake
My reflections on life through travel, human design, energy, astrology, and emotional clarity. Not as a guru. Just one person figuring it out in real time.

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There are moments in life where you don’t grow.
You don’t heal.
You don’t evolve.

You simply survive.
Barely.
With your self-respect hanging on by a thread.

This is one of those posts.

Slieve Bloom Mountains, Co. Offaly, Ireland

Story One: Madeira and the Attack of the Scalded Minge

I was in Madeira.
About a week in.
Feeling adventurous. Feeling continental. Feeling like a woman who says “yes” to full-day island tours.

Seven of us in a van.
I take shotgun because motion sickness and I are sworn enemies.

It’s early. Cold.
I’m smug because I brought a jacket.
North of the island today. Lagoons. Black sand beaches. Dramatic cliffs. The Atlantic doing Atlantic things.

I come prepared.
Water bottle.
Snacks.
And, because I’m emotionally dependent on hot beverages, a tumbler of freshly brewed green tea.

We pick up a family.
Then head to another hotel for two more people.

We wait.
And wait.
And wait.

Twenty minutes later, no sign of them.

The driver comes back raging.
Absolutely feral.
Swearing in Portuguese.
I don’t speak the language, but rage is universal.

Now he’s driving like he’s in The Fast and the Furious: Madeira Drift Edition.
Sharp corners.
Zig-zagging.
My breakfast is threatening a comeback tour.

The tea between my legs has cooled enough.
I think, “grand, I’ll have a sip.”

I flip open the mouthpiece.

BUMP.

Hot tea launches itself straight down and into my crotch.

Direct hit.
Critical damage.

I swear I saw my life flash before my eyes.
Not childhood memories.
Just the word “REGRET” in capital letters.

My lady parts are SCALDED.
Like I’ve tried to steam my own vagina.

But do I scream?

No.

I sit there.
Stoic.
In silent agony.
Like a war hero.

We pull into our first stop.
Cliff views.
Glass floor platform.

A vertigo nightmare.

It’s freezing.
Wind howling.
My pants are wet.
My crotch is now in hypothermia mode.

I sprint for the toilet like I’ve been summoned by God himself.
No hand dryer.
Of course not.

I grab half the forest in paper towels and start blotting my dignity back into place.

Thank Christ for black trousers.
Because from the outside it looked like I’d lost control of my bladder.

Imagine explaining that.

“No, no, it’s not urine.
It’s tea.
Boiling tea.
On my fanny.”

I go back out.
Try to enjoy the scenery as if nothing happened.

Then I head back to the van early.

My seat is soaked.

Of course it is.

So now I’m sitting on a towel like a toddler who’s not fully toilet-trained yet.

If anyone noticed, they were polite enough not to mention it.
Which I appreciate.
Deeply.

Honestly, if anyone was going to burn and freeze their own vagina in one morning, it was always going to be me.

Oscar-worthy performance.
No witnesses.
Ten out of ten trauma.

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Story Two: Ireland, Perimenopause and Public Urination

Different country.
Same chaos.

I meet a friend for a hike.
We met in Madeira, funny enough.
He’s Irish.
Likes the outdoors.
Has no idea what’s about to unfold.

I offer to take him up the Slieve Bloom Mountains.
Grand day out.
Fresh air.
Nature.
Growth.

We start climbing.
It’s steeper than expected.
Boggy.
Soft ground.

Halfway up, my body turns into a malfunctioning radiator.

Perimenopause has entered the chat.

I am roasting.
Like a pig on a spit.
Internal combustion.

Coat off.
Scarf off.
Dignity off.

Then it hits me.

I need to pee.

Urgently.

We are on top of a mountain.
No toilets.
No cafés.
Just trees and birds minding their own business.

I tell him, “You walk on. Don’t look back. I mean it.”

He laughs.
Promises.
Heads off.

Now it’s me.
Alone.
Sweating.
Pants are coming down.

Before anything happens, I check the wind direction.
Because this is a professional operation.

This is also when I wish I had a penis.
Honestly.
Life on easy mode.

Instead, I bare arse to the Irish countryside like it’s a spiritual offering.

There I am.
Midlife.
Half-naked.
Pissing on a mountain.
Praying no hikers appear.

If anyone had walked by, it would’ve been:

“Is she okay?”

“No, she’s perimenopausal.”

I finish.
Wipe.
Thank God for pocket tissues.
Pull myself together like a woman who has survived worse.

Climb the rest of the way up.

We take photos.
Have a laugh.
He’s younger than me and absolutely traumatized internally, I’m sure.

We hike back down.
Get lunch.
See a castle.
Climb a tree.
Solve the mysteries of the universe.

Great day.

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Moral of the Story

Life is ridiculous.
Our bodies are chaos.
Travel humbles you in deeply personal ways.

One minute you’re chasing sunsets.
Next minute, you’re scalding your own crotch or peeing on a mountain like a feral woodland creature.

We’re all out here.
Learning how to human.
One awkward moment at a time.

If you can’t laugh at yourself,
life becomes a very serious place.

And honestly,
none of us signed up for that.

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Tell me…

Don’t leave me hanging. What’s the moment you had to laugh at yourself because the alternative was crying in public?

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