My Epic Bathroom Fail

My trip to the restroom wasn't restful

The story I am about to relate to you is true, I swear it. You may not believe me, but I promise it is. And it all started like this…

It was humid and sunny that late May afternoon in 2008. My family had just eaten dinner and, all ensconced in my dad’s huge white Chevy Suburban, we were on our way to Chastain Park for a concert. I don’t remember exactly what the concert was, but I know it was an oldies concert. You know, where groups from the fifties and sixties reunite and go on tour, playing music that your parents remember from their youth and all. I think the concert was sixties psychedelic music, and I cannot even remember which bands played because the night has been indelibly seared into my memory not because of the wonderful music that was played at Chastain Park, but because of what happened in the Chastain Park public restroom.

It was maybe a third of the way through the concert when the urge to go to the bathroom  hit me. I know it can’t have been too far in, because it was still light out. And it was stinkin’ hot. So hot that even your butt sweats, which is never a good thing. I made my way through the crowd to the women’s restroom and discovered, (surprise!), that there was a line. Now, ladies, I ask you, in all the history of human civilization, has there ever been a women’s public restroom without a line? I mean, I am sure that even cavewomen had to stand in line somewhere for 15 hours to pee in a little cave, while the cavemen just zoomed on by them, peeing in a bush or behind a tree, and then going back out to hunt saber-toothed tigers or wooly mammoths. Clearly in matters of urination, as in matters of wage equality, men have the upper hand here.

The public restroom was not very big. It contained maybe eight stalls, one of which was a huge handicapped-accessible stall with its own sink and hand dryer. Now, let’s be honest. I think that, if given a choice of any stall in the restroom, we would all choose the handicapped stall. First, there is just a lot more room, allowing you to comfortably and freely move about. Second, there is so much more space to store your stuff! And if you, like me, have, due to an addiction to crafting, given up any pretense of carrying a proper purse and have just started carrying your knitting bag around everywhere with your wallet shoved in on one side—well, you appreciate the space even more! (Carrying my knitting bag everywhere may prove to be a problem if I ever go on a date again. Though I suppose if I knitted under the table at dinner my date might not even notice!) Anyway, I always choose the handicapped stall in public bathrooms if it is available, unless there is someone in there already.

Before attempting a daredevil stunt, take your pegasus
in for his yearly vision screening

So, that fateful night, when my turn in the bathroom line came, the stall that was available happened to be the handicapped stall. I smiled inwardly at my luck! I would not have to go to the bathroom in one of the smaller stalls with my face stuck into the side of my bag as it hung on the back of the door in front of me. Sometimes, you literally cannot move an inch in those stalls, and death by way of knitting bag asphyxiation was not my idea of the best way to go. First, surely after my death the knitting bag would be seized by the authorities pending a complete investigation of circumstances, making it impossible for the yarn and knitted items inside to be immediately passed on to craft-loving relatives who would love and cherish them. And, second, if I have to die in a public and very visible way, I want it to be because I was doing something awesome. Like leaping over the Grand Canyon on the back of a winged Pegasus who has poor depth perception, or trying to save an elderly lady from being hit by a car as I selflessly throw myself in front of her, and my effort at deflecting the car with my recently attained superpower of making a force field fails or something. I surely don’t want to die with my face adhered to the side of a Vera Bradley bag so large that it could comfortably house a family of four.

Anyway, I went into the handicapped stall and went about my business, admiring all of the clear, free space that surrounded me, and the way my large knitting bag looked like an island in the middle of a silver ocean hanging on the back of the door. After about a minute I heard a banging sound. It was quiet at first, but then it became louder. I was almost done. It was almost time to wash my hands! I ignored the banging. It was probably just a kid kicking something outside the stall.

The banging grew louder, and was suddenly accompanied by a deep voice—like James Earl Jones, only female. The voice bellowed, “Come out now! Don’t you know there are people here who really need to go to the bathroom? You shouldn’t even be in there! Come out!” It took me a minute, but I finally realized that the banging was coming from just outside my stall door, and the deep-voiced yeller was addressing me! I quickly finished up so I could see what was the matter.

I tentatively poked my head out of the stall, like Punxsutawney Phil on February second. Outside my stall sat a haggard-looking woman with one broken leg. She was perched in a wheelchair, and had one crutch outstretched to bang on the door again. A little bit frightened, I tried to shimmy by her, but she wasn’t going to let me leave so easily. “What were you doing in there!?” she shouted. “Don’t you know there are real handicapped people out here who need to go to the bathroom!? You are so rude!” Mortified, and with the eyes of a dozen women who needed to go to the bathroom upon me, I slinked away.

Yes, I was actually using the handicapped bathroom stall when a woman in a wheelchair came and needed to use it! What are the odds that at that exact moment I would be in the stall? Probably about as good as the odds of Anthony Weiner not sending an inappropriate text message. I don’t quite understand the woman’s need to yell about it and bang on the door, though. Also, while I don’t know her whole situation, it appeared that she just had a broken leg, which, while painful, and unfortunate, in my opinion, doesn’t exactly qualify her as “handicapped people.” So, while I recognize her right to use the handicapped stall, and the possibility that she even had a temporary handicapped sticker on her car, I would argue with her reference to herself as a handicapped person because her handicap was temporary. However, when you are in the middle of the public restroom at Chastain Park, in front of an audience, having a crutch waved in your face, and a woman with a baritone like the Big Bopper yelling at you, it is not the time to quibble about semantics!

Well, folks, there’s the true story of my epic bathroom fail. If you take nothing else away from reading this post, please remember that a little discomfort can save you from a much larger discomfort, like having an O.K. Corral-type showdown in the public lavatory. So, carry a small purse, and squeeze on into that tiny stall. Better safe than sorry.