Well, here it is! Yep, that's right--another blog to completely waste your time and hopefully make you guffaw to the point that you must run to the sink and throw up your Vanilla Coke. (True story, that happened once. Not so pleasant.) In all honesty, that probably will not happen, but that is beside the point.
What is this blog about? It is, quite honestly, about what it says it's about. Strange things that have happened to me while in the bathroom. And yes, they are all true stories. You'd be surprised at the number of strange things that have happened to me while I've pleasantly been answering the call of nature. On the days when I lack strange things that have happened to me in the bathroom, I will retell some of my favorite funny stories (true stories, too) and perhaps other strange things that have happened to me over the course of my life. Like that one time I stayed at a motel where there was rumored to be a gutted deer in the bathtub. Or that other time I attempted to kick a basketball and promptly missed, resulting in a broken arm and a great deal of embarrassment. And that's not even my most embarrassing moment, either. Undoubtedly, you will come to know what moment that is over time.
To begin, I shall relate a short, confusing, mildly amusing, and quite strange event that happened to me in the bathroom some months ago.
Again, I certify that every single one of these stories is true. Every. Single. One.
Here's me, Little Ms. Skippy, speeding to the university bathroom during class with growling bowels and my sphincter getting quite the workout. It was one of those tension moments in the movies where there is five seconds to disarm the bomb and you must figure out if it is the red wire or the blue wire, but in this case disarming involves a quick un-button and zipper-slip and if you run out of time it will be a very messy explosion indeed. I'm sure we've all been there. This is only one reason why I have little taste for Mexican food.
Crashing into the bathroom in the nick of time, so relieved I nearly relax so much that the bomb goes off prematurely, I work my way into a stall. A small bathroom, only two-stalls, and the other is occupied. I'm not sure by who and I do not care as I engage in sweet relief. As I sit, trying to measure how many rolls of toilet paper I will need, a shoe flies underneath the side of my stall and hits me in the foot. A flat, black shoe, with rubber-felt, like the ones dancers wear. I can only assume it was a dancer and, being the kind person I am, I will give her the benefit of the doubt and assume that she was merely changing out of her dance shoes after a class. Why she would be doing that in the bathroom stall, I have no idea.
Now, I stare at the shoe in bewilderment, quite forgetting about my own bodily functions at this moment. All I could think was, "Oh my gosh, a flying shoe." It lay in an awkward wrinkled heap staring up at me with a menacing blankness. It was like it was saying, "Yes. And I am just the first. Beware....Beware..."
I really think it said that to me. I'm not even lying.
Then, the bathroom echoes with a voice. The dancer's voice. And you will not believe what it said.
"Oops. Can I have that back please?"
Okay, maybe you can believe it. I was just in such a state of shock that I could not believe that she was even mentioning the awkward moment that had just lapsed. That, and maybe the fact that I was now self-conscious that she probably heard every single groan of my bowel's relief. So she says this, and her hand appears under the stall, reaching for the shoe just out of her grasp.
So I lean over and hand her the shoe. It disappears into the next stall, and a few moments later there is a flush and a lock clicks. The girl then leaves (without washing her hands, which is why I sincerely hope she was simply changing shoes) and I am left to muse on the Throne of Deepest Musing. I let about a minute pass before finishing my run, on the off chance that she might come back to throw the other shoe at me. I washed up and returned to class so perplexed that I could do nothing but look at people's shoes as they walked by, wondering which one was the coward that attacked me in my most vulnerable position.
Needless to say, I now have a fear of black ballet flats and, if I can help it, never, ever, use the stall next to an occupied one.
