It’s Been 100 Years Since My Last Confession
Okay, I’m sorry to admit that my last post caused a bit of an unintentional family scuffle, so Quick! I need to write something to distract injured parties from that which caused them emotional harm and ensure them that I am, in fact, off my gourd and frequently stream-of-conscience write about exactly what’s on my mind at any given moment with little regard to how it’s going to make other people feel. I realize this isn’t exactly an attractive quality in a human being, but the concession is that it is often an attractive quality in a writer because it pushes me to say things that the rest of you might only be thinking but would never admit yourselves because why should you have to deal with the consequences when I’m obviously more than ready and willing to do it for you?
Like… I’m one of the many people who says she can’t stand her friends’ lengthy Facebook status updates revealing, in detail, their course of mundane moves throughout the day and whether or not their mucus plugs are still intact, but the truth is that I still don’t block them because I secretly enjoy the (completely unwarranted) superior feeling I get when I read them because, you know, I have so many better things to do with my time. Like blogging. Right?
And… I don’t care what anyone says – fedoras should totally make a comeback. There is nothing sexier than a fedora. Except maybe a newsboy cap.
And sometimes I want to turn off my phone and hurl it across the room. Actually, I have thrown my phone across the room. Like a frickin’ 2-year-old. Sometimes I don’t want to be reached. Is that such a terrible thing? And I hate texting. Doesn’t anyone actually talk to people anymore??
Now I feel like I owe you something for all of this truthfulness that makes me look like a crappy person (because I have a feeling this isn’t going to be one of those “movie moments” where first one person stands up and starts empathetically clapping in support and soon he’s joined by the rest of the audience because it’s finally okay to admit how we really feel and stand together without fear of admonishment and disapproval).
Because I know I’m not better than anyone. But just like everyone else, I sometimes feel like I am. But then Karma steps in and bitch slaps me back down. It’s the perfect system.
So about a week ago in Omaha, we were hanging out at a bar with some friends. I was a couple of Amber Bocks into the evening, when I did something that probably every single one of you has done at some point in your life (or maybe I’d just like to think that so I feel a little less awkward about it). But if you have done this before, you also likely did it before the age of 12. I am 28.
I announced that I needed to use the facilities, and with an air of confidence that comes from 7 years of public legal drinking, walked across the room – maneuvering around waitresses and busboys like it was my job – pushed open the door with a zeal that announced I had arrived at my destination and there better not be a line because dammit I have to pee, walked in, and found myself staring, much to my initial confusion, directly at a urinal.
Why is there a urinal in the women’s room?
That was my first thought. Really.
And why is there a boy standing at the urinal in the women’s room?
Second thought. No joke.
It was about that time when my brain stopped sloshing around in its pool of Michelob and caught up with my surroundings.
Urinal guy hasn’t turned around yet. It’s not too late to escape unnoticed.
I took a step back, and the high heel of my boot made a very audible clack! on the tile floor. Why weren’t my boots this loud when I walked in??!
At that point I turned and ran out of the door, quickly slipping into the safety and comfort of the other door, which was unmistakably marked with the skirted stick figure (aka. the universal symbol for a women’s rest room) and quietly prayed that no one had witnessed my humiliation. When I finally emerged, I found myself wondering if urinal boy was somewhere in the room, sitting at a table with a bunch of his friends, just waiting for me to come out of the restroom so they could laugh their asses off. We hadn’t actually made eye-contact, so there was a good chance he wouldn’t recognize me. Right?
I guess I’ll never know, but the good thing is no one ever confronted me about it. So I had another drink and got over it. And now I’m telling you about it.
Because we’re all human. We all do stupid things sometimes. And I’m a firm believer that it’s how we handle these things – whether we own up to them and admit our flaws (either inwardly or outwardly) and work on fixing them, or if we try to hide them and pretend they don’t exist – that affects the type of people we become and reflects the way others see us.
And I know that I’d rather be flawed than fake.