What is with me and awkward bathroom encounters? Twice in the last month, women have come into the bathroom talking on their cell phones and then proceeded to talk on their cell phones while relieving themselves. Not even the sound of peeing in the background is a hindrance to cell phone communications anymore? You are peeing. Get off the phone.
While twisted and I think maybe illegal [see: legislation on using recording devices in public restrooms], wireless connectivity is the least of my bathroom problems of late.
No. Not like that.
Trust me, I would not write about that on here.
I can’t fit into the regular stalls anymore. Well, that’s an over statement. It’s really difficult to close the door of a regular stall (remember that they swing in toward the toilet) on myself, let alone open it without smacking it into my protruding abdomen. That’s right friends, I’m now using the handicapped stalls of America out of necessity and not out of a selfish desire for extra standing room or those fancy metal railings that help you stand up (and make you want to wash your hands until they’re raw).
So cut to yesterday, when the 9th floor baño was clear of cleaning crews and I went ahead and used myself some handicapped stall. A few moments later, I hear a woman enter the bathroom, try my stall door, and then take a few steps back to wait until it was available. When I came out of the stall (oh, glorious outward swinging doors!), I saw that the woman who was waiting was now hobbling toward the door because of a walking foot cast. There you have it. We both have perfectly good reasons to use the spacious luxury suite, I thought. Until:
Lady: “I wish I were the one pregnant instead of this broken foot.”
Me: “I’m sorry, what’s that?”
Lady: [Now, well, using the stall, and talking to me at the same time.]“It would be nice to be pregnant instead of having this broken foot and cast… Actually, maybe not; I’m too old to be pregnant anymore. Heck, I’m too old to have a broken foot either, so I guess that’s how the cookie crumbles.”
I chuckled politely and, finding that the relative awkwardness in the room was a suffocatingly dense 100%, exited as rapidly as possible.
WAIT. Did she just compare having some plaster and a rubber calf-high boot on her leg for 6 to 8 weeks to the process of sacrificing your body to create and give life to a human being?
Cuz, I mean, edema and stretchmarks and exhaustion and nausea and backaches and insomnia and discomfort and weight gain and leg cramps and a sore belly button and swollen feet and overheating and acne and mood swings and ligament pain and alcohol avoidance and lightheadedness and loose joints are, frankly, a walk in the park compared to having to limp, really.
At least I can still go swimming.
1. You have weird bathroom experiences.
2. Look at the bright side. You COULD be pregnant AND have a broken foot. Also, your…”discomfort” is purpose driven. Hers is either accident or stupidity driven.
p.s. Discomfort isn’t a strong enough word but I didn’t feel like repeating your (slightly embittered?) but accurate long list of woes. =)
Kind of reminds me of a “Would you rather?” we MIGHT have come up with, but of course, not quite because we would have come put with a better opposite choice, maybe like, “Would you rather be pregnant with triplets and bedridden from the 2nd month or be pregnant with one child, but have a broken foot, arm and collar bone while casing after your twins?” (Or something like that because we’re good friends like that. Hello, Mr. Perfect-with-a-foot-fetish. ::grumble::)
What is up with people and bathrooms? Why are they much more comfortable talking to you in the restroom, BUT heaven forbid, anyone talk while in the elevator?? Hello, does that make since?! nope.
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