Sunday, January 13, 2013

Men's Public Restrooms Have Gotten Cleaner---I Should Know

I AM very fortunate, especially as far as Chronic Lyme people go, to have so many of my symptoms decreased significantly: low energy levels, constant muscle pain, constant joint pain, depression, anxiety.

BUT. There is one that has gotten worse: my cognitive abilities.  Specifically, those that involve "auto-pilot", or things that, deep down, we have been taught through many years of social mores, are wrong, or incorrect.

For instance, I have been driving the route I drive, consistently over time, and looked up, and all of a sudden the path is completely unfamiliar and I doubt myself, and have to pull over to rely on GPS.  

Or, like using public restrooms.

First, let me help you to fully understand the complex mess of my brain inadequacies.

We ALL know I have never had much of a filter between my brain and mouth.  Combine that with a wide range of medications, and shit just gets funnier and more and more inappropriate.  Really, it's like a goddamn public service I provide.

A while back, Sky King wanted to go to a grown-up movie, with only me.  We ditched the kiddos, and ventured out.  It was nice---no germy hands in the popcorn, only $30 in concessions.  Truly, a night to remember.

After 472 ounces of Coke Zero, we both had to beeline for the facilities at the end.  I was fiddling with my phone, having missed 9 text messages (WTF???) and like a good obedient wife, was walking a respectable distance from my man (I almost said that without peeing myself laughing...). Unfortunately, he did not have the wherewithal to guide me to the women's restroom. Jerk.

Instead, he walked right in, and straight up to the urinal.  I, hot on his heels, followed him.  Pretty much right away, things seemed amiss.  I turned away from the urinals, and headed to the stall because something in my brain said that a urinal would not adequately meet my needs.

THAT is when I realized I was in the wrong place.  NOT at the sight of urinals.  Nope.  Not me.  Instead, I went toward the stalls (which are not as plentiful for men.  What the hell?)

Then, a massive fit of guffaws ensued, by me, as well as Sky King.  I blasted out the men's room door, laughing (almost to the point of peeing my pants) and ran toward the proper room. Fortunately, no one was coming out the door, or I would have blasted them, in my super-fast quest to erase time by running to the appropriate bathroom.

The only other witness, fortunately, was the ticket-ripper guy. And my husband.  Who has been sworn to silence. 

Unfortunately, he married a big-ass blab.




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