Just Another Bathroom Story

I collect bathroom stories. Let me reword that – I’ve created a collection of bathroom stories. Typical people have bathroom stories like the time they walked out of the restroom with toilet paper stuck to the bottom of their shoe or when they tucked their slip into their pantyhose. Let me first explain that according to my Mom, I’m not typical; like all of her children, I’m remarkable. And although I’d like to believe that I’m remarkable all of the time, I’m remarkably dorky a lot of the time, which is evident every time I have a bathroom story.

My first bathroom story didn’t even happen in the bathroom, but it set the stage for all subsequent stories. My Mom and I still laugh about it although its humor has been grossly surpassed by subsequent stories, however, nothing is as special as your first. But, that’s a chapter for the book and you’ll need to wait for that one.

Today I wore my favorite attire to work: dark levis, crushed velvet Dansko clogs, my trusty sturdy black belt, and.a perfectly white boat shirt – which is really something special because you can’t buy boat shirts at any time other than the Nordstrom Anniversary Sale and because perfectly white just doesn’t stay perfect with me for very long because my cuffs are always filthy or are threadbare because they rub on my wheels. So, I’m feeling slightly cute and confident today and I’m having a good shirt day and I haven’t had to change my pants yet despite that my extra shot of caffeine is working.

So my most recent trip into the washroom went without incident until I noticed that one of my wheels felt a little loose. Not wanting to lose it (yes, metaphorically as well), I tried to click the axle back onto place so I wouldn’t find myself tipped over with only one wheel attached. The first click didn’t do it so I leaned down slightly more, grabbed slightly harder and did the tilt-jerk-twist-push maneuver to make it click in. It did. Stuck tight; along with my white shirt cuff. AND IT WOULDN’T COME OUT! So there I am, handcuffed to my wheel and no where to go but around and around as I pushed myself in circles in the ladies room.

I considered what it would look like pushing myself, leaning down with my chest to my knees and one hand shackled to the hub, out of the bathroom door smack-dab into the middle of my office where not only would I feel like an idiot, I’d look like an idiot too.

So I yank and yank and nothing is happening except that my shirt is getting blacker and blacker as it’s sandwiched into the greasy hub. Hmm, I have my phone, I could text message Kellene. She’s not at work. I could call Christine. She’s in a meeting. I could call Kirsten, her cubicle is right outside the door. NOT. She probably thinks I’m a dork already, I don't need to confirm that. So I yank and yank and yank. And eventually it starts to move, and stretch and twist until it is really knotted up in a greasy ball. DORK!

I’m concentrating on the bind I’m in and rolling around in circles bashing my head on the stalls and giggling because I can’t think of a good way to explain to the next person who walks in the door what I’m doing. Then I get frantic about being fettered to my expensive Spinergy wheels and not being able to replace my cool new shirt until clear next July when the Anniversary Sale is on, and thinking that maybe the Nordstrom website will still have them on sale so I don’t have to wait so long to get my self-esteem back.

So I rest for a minute with my head still in my lap and one arm in a manacle and the other one holding on so I don’t roll around any more than I already am, but I can’t rest too long because it is mid-morning and people will start needing to use the restroom about this time of day. And here I am getting closer and closer to the door because that’s the way the floor slopes. So if someone does come in, they’ll whack me in the head with that huge solid door and not only will I have ruined my day with a dirty shirt, but I’d ruin theirs because they’d feel really bad that they just concussed me by barging into the door.

I start to think, exactly how could a Service Dog help me out in this situation? NOT! The trainers at CCI were very specific to tell me that a Service Dog cannot save your life and it is not Lassie and it won’t be able to pull anyone from a well or a whale. DORK! So I push myself back into the middle of the room with my left arm pushing in little tiny increments and my right hand is going around and around like it’s lodged into a train wheel. And I'm specifically thinking that hopefully, once I get back over by the sinks where I have more room to work I can get myself loose.

Then I yank and yank and yank until the thread starts to give way on the corner of my shirt and I think that if I yank a little less forceful, but still put some pressure on it I can escape relatively unscathed and maybe my shirt won’t look too awfully bad because I can roll up the sleeves whenever I wear it so the black stain won’t show. And then, whew, it finally starts to loosen and now I know that I won’t have to worry about having black sleeve cuffs because it RIPPED THE ENTIRE CORNER OF MY SHIRT OFF!

Crap! I won’t be cute for a whole other year!