It was a stormy Tuesday evening. The office was full of strangers. The bluish lights in the restroom were buzzing. Rain struck the floor-to-ceiling windows as if we were in a giant car wash. Thunder caused the whole building to shake with fright. It was the beginning of the sort of bad horror movie that goes straight to Redbox and you’d only use a free promo code to rent.
I had been asked to work an event at a local entertainment company where there would be live music and catering from a company that had out-of-this-world biscuits. I was wearing all black to look hella thin and classy for all of the guests, AKA potential husbands. It was a good eyeliner day. Symmetrical cat eyes and not a smear. Girls, you know how rare this is. Something was bound to go wrong.
I sat at the reception table welcoming the guests and let me say, I killed it. My verbiage was, as they say, on point. Charmed the crap out of them. Used all the crowd pleasers: “Let me VALIDATE your parking,” “There’s an OPEN BAR right around the corner,” “A BEYONCÉ playlist is on”—you get it.
Everything was going so well—until, as happens in every good story, I had to use the bathroom.
I ran into the first stall AS ALWAYS. (I read somewhere years ago that it has the least amount of bacteria because everyone always avoids it if possible. Ever since, I consider it a triumph to snag stall #1 and laugh my little heart out at the fact that everyone else THINKS they’re winning when in fact, they are disgusting.) I sat down, ripping the literal butt of my new tights along the way, but I couldn’t let that distract me. Riiiight before I did what I came to do, I was rudely interrupted.
“I have such a shy bladder!” she said.
The mystery woman on the other side of my stall wall was making girly bathroom conversation with me. This doesn’t usually happen. We are catty girls trying to get in and out of there with maximum mirror time, not some shameless men who stand while they urinate and talk about “the game.”
I did what any girl would do and engaged in a quick shoe evaluation to see just who I was dealing with. I could tell from her black, pleather, pointy-toe, two-inch heels that she was a short sassy blonde in her late forties. Yeah, sounds about right.
“Hehe I KNOW, me too!” I lied with a giggle. (BUT YOU DON’T HAVE A SHY PERSONALITY WHAT IS YOUR DEAL THIS IS SO WEIRD)”
“I’m NEVER going to pee!” she finally responded in a cute voice.
… feeling a bit confused and annoyed at the distraction from peeing at this point. I mean, I think the toilet is just as comfortable as the next person, but NEVER? There’s a whole world out there.
“Yeah, me either!” (AS LONG AS YOU KEEP DISTRACTING ME)
Silence. WTF? Was she thinking of a comeback? Was she trying to trap me? This was escalating so quickly.
Several seconds later, with still no action in the bladder department (the fried chicken was going to be gone by the time I escaped this dungeon of a situation), THIS is what she says to me with a sudden change of tone:
“But really, one of us is going to have to leave.”
WHAT?????? I’m not sure if you NOTICED, but this is a PUBLIC restroom. You’ve been doing this for what, 48 years now? What’s the freakin’ problem? I was taken aback. This was total BS. Like any mature woman would do, I sat back, crossed my arms and legs, and said with the confidence of Kanye West, “Well it’s sure as hell not gonna be me.”
OK, not really. Instead, I unintentionally let out a baby gasp of pure shock and offense and peed. Then I took extra long to wash my hands (remember, sing “Happy Birthday” three times to yourself) just to make it even longer before she could pee.
I don’t know if you’ve ever been kicked out of the bathroom by someone with ugly shoes before, but I’ve had nightmares ever since. Now every time I go to the bathroom, even in the privacy of my own home, I get a spell of PTSD and do my thing before someone can tell me to leave. No one should ever have to go through that. She should be expecting a bill for my therapy.