I’ll Never Live It Down

Where do I begin…

It is the time of year at my job when we are being slammed with reports and projects and all types of interesting things that would threaten to keep me away from blogging. So far, it has been successful. But I have a story to tell. A story that I can no longer contain within myself. And I am foregoing every fiber in my being to tell you this God-awful story, willingly letting work pile up around me because I can no longer contain myself.

You ready?

OK, before I tell you, just know that I love you guys.

And, don’t judge me.

Please.
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When I was a kid, I was easily embarrassed. It didn’t help that I was always thought of as “the funny one”. Not because of my great comedic timing, but because I was always doing something I didn’t intend that got the laughs. On top of being a klutz, tall and lanky, goofy-looking, and the mouth of orthodontia folklore, I couldn’t keep myself out of embarrassing situations. I was legendary. To make matters worse, my family – small as they are – were usually at the helm of witnessing some of my most astounding moments. It’s probably because of them that I learned to grow a thick skin and laugh at myself. Before that, I used to cry.

A lot.

Until a few weeks ago, I thought I’d grown out of having what I affectionately call my Lucille Ball Moments. I have kids now, one who is so like her mother, even down to the embarrassing situations. And she cries! Oh, the TEARS, does she cry. She hides her face with her hands. Or the couch. Or a blanket. Or the hole she quickly dug in the ground when you weren’t looking. These kids were supposed to absolve me of my faux pas just by matter of transference.

Then the universe said, “Not so, my child,” and hit me with a hot plate.

I do not wear stockings. (Remember this because it will become important later.) I hate them. They make me hot and, for a big-legged person such as myself, they are just the kindling needed to light a fire between my thighs when I walk.

That may have been more information than you needed at this moment but, remember. I’m providing you with visuals as they will all become important. Maybe. Or maybe I’m just sadistic and have personal issues I need to address.

So. To summarize: Stockings = hatred and woe on me.

On this particular day, the day of this instance I am literally humiliating myself to tell you, I decided my outfit wouldn’t suffice without… you guessed it. Stockings. My rationale? It’s getting warm. Spring is coming. They make my heels look sexy. I want to feel like a grown-up. They are fishnet and, therefore, breathable. The tighter-than-death feeling I get around my stomach when I wear them may not be so bad because I’ve been trimming down and, when that happens, my gut is the first to go. I can do this. Stockings are my friend.

And I sat at my desk doing my desk job. And I ate breakfast. And I worked some more. And I ate a small snack because all the weight loss books say that’s good to do to help boost your metabolism. And I worked some more. And I ate lunch…

Now. I don’t know about you, but the portions of my lunch are larger than my breakfast or a snack because, by midday, I’m a bit hungry. Yes, I had a snack. But you should typically eat more for lunch than you do for breakfast. I, historically, battle ulcers and other stomach issues. Most of my stomach issues are brought on by stress and a list of foods I haven’t been allowed to eat either at all or in excess since I was fifteen. Whatever of these factors – size of lunch; stress; eating a no-no food from my list – started the next sequence of events, I’m not sure. But I curse them all because, within 30 minutes, I was bubbly.

And, no, not the Colbie Caillat-type of Bubbly.

I fidgeted. I moved around. I twisted several times before it dawned on me that my mid-section was being squeezed like a vice grip. I ripped open my desk drawer and produced a pair of scissors to cut the elastic from the support band holding all my insides together until they were a hot lava pool with the gurgling and hissing and popping. In situations like these, one snip is not enough. I’m to the point of eruption. I need 360 degree relief. Several snips later and my belly extended. Praise the ‘lujah, I’ve been reborn. But wait! It was too late! My belly was moaning and I was sweating harder than a Baptist preacher in July.

The way my office floor is set up is our offices wrapped in walls, marble, and glass doors. Then, just past those structures, a long hall leading to the restrooms. Shared, public stalled restrooms. For the women, three to a facility, introduced by two bowled sinks. For the men… well, I don’t know because I’m not a man and I’ve never, never, ever, ever ever ever ever ever been in the men’s bathroom.

A year ago, me and some female colleagues of mine sat around discussing our public restroom horror stories and phobias. We all agreed we could not, WOULD NOT, do more than pee in places such as this because who wants to claim ownership of the he-who-smelt-it-dealt-it card? More importantly, poop fright. Poop fright, if you have no earthly idea what I’m talking about, is similar to stage fright. People with stage fright suffer from being unable to perform in front of others. Poop fright? Same thing. Your bowels lock. Your face contorts. I don’t care how much you have to go, your intestines are all but having epileptic seizures trying to keep in what wants to come out.

My mother, God love her, left the restaurant we were attending to celebrate my college graduation, just to kidnap the keys to my car and DRIVE to my nearby apartment to do her business in peace. Do you understand the gravity of the situation? Because I don’t think you do.

One of these colleagues told the story of how, during one late night at the office, she was attacked by the call of nature. Since the women’s bathroom was being cleaned at the time she, in all her coolness and hipness, sauntered over to the men’s room. “EW!” we exclaimed. Tisk-tisk, she scoffed, because the men’s room, she explained, had the one thing our restroom was missing: one closed-off stall in a private room with a door. “Ooooooh,” we said, bitter that we had not known of this luxury. “Of course,” she added, “you do have to walk past the urinal. But hey. At least it’s private.”

At this one moment, I thought of my cool, hip colleague and how that private, closed-off stall past the urinal sounded more than pretty good right now. It sounded heavenly. I checked the halls. Walked the offices, counting the men in-house. One guy on the premises, clickity-clacking away at his laptop, deep in thought. I could do this. I could sneak away to the men’s room unnoticed, do my business without fear, and leave lighter and less bubbly than I came.

I didn’t have much time. My bladder was a ticking time bomb. I scurried ever so quietly to the den of forbiddeness, rushed to the private room, closed the door and locked it. Phew! Moments later, and just as predicted, I’m lighter and ready to face the world. Oh, private men’s bathroom, where have you been all my life? With a flush and a clothes check, I was ready to leave.

[wiggles the lock] I said, I was ready to leave.

[wiggles lock again] I said… I SAID I WAS READY TO LEAVE!

Y’all.

I am locked in this bathroom.

I wish I was joking when I saw the lock wouldn’t turn. Wish I was joking when I say that, for one, desperate half-hour, I turned and turned and turned that lock, hoping to the sweet Jesus it would open. Wish I was joking when I say I took off my watch and shoe, obviously channeling MacGyver, looking for something metal and blunt enough to undo the screws holding the lock in place. Wish I was joking when I began to perspire through – I said THU-ROOOO – my shirt (bra, camisole), armpits a-flow. Wish I was joking when I say my mind raced because, oh my God, how am I going to get out of here? Who’s going to find me? Oh, for the love of God, WHAT IF A MAN COMES IN HERE AND USES THE URINAL? Will I go to jail for perversion? How long before they notice I’m gone? How am I going to explain this to my husband? How am I going to go to the Company picnic after this? How can I raise my head in anything other than shame because sweet mercy I AM FRICKIN’ TRAPPED IN HERE?!

Wish I was joking when I tell you that it finally dawned on me how to get out…

…and this was the end result:







Good thing I spent all those years building up that tough skin. Yep. Goooood thing.

[SPECIAL NOTE: I am not responsible for making that toilet grody. Yet I am the reason why no one can get in there to clean it. My bad.]

Cover photo by ~Gothicjade