I used to think I had some modicum of class….until Saturday.
I met my friend for a late lunch where we spent several hours chatting and just catching up. While we talked, I sipped (ok-gulped) my diet soda. Our very conscientious waitress was quick to refill my beverage without my even asking, and by the time we paid the check, I had consumed enough diet soda to fill a small bathtub.
My weekend plans included taking in a movie, and needless to say, finding and using “the facilities” was going to be necessary before making this two-hour commitment. At this point, the need was approaching URGENT, as I raced into the nearest ladies’ room. Busting through the doors, I found all three of the “stalls” (what are we, horses?) occupied, one by a woman actually talking on the phone! I waited, fidgeting as if I was rehearsing for Riverdance.
I practically ran down the six year old who was the first to saunter (well, it sure seemed like a saunter) from her “relief station”, and although I was practically frantic for relief, I remembered mother’s advice and quickly made my TP triangle, hands shaking all the while.
One 6-inch zipper away from sanity, I gave a tug…..then a yank…..Oh, dear Lord, what’s the problem? This can’t be happening…..my tucked-in shirt was caught up in my zipper! OK…all I have to do is stay calm and carefully remove the shirt from the zipper…..
I gently (then not-so-gently) pulled on the shirt, then pulled on the zipper, only making matters worse. The shirt was now permanently bonded to the jeans. Unfortunately for me, the pants were so tight to begin with that there wasn’t a snowball’s chance in hell that these pants were moving if the zipper didn’t. I started to panic and began tearing at the shirt. Then it came to me. Take off the shirt. Bent in half in a space not big enough to turn around in, I wriggled my way half-way out of the shirt. The fact that the shirt was still stuck in my pants was prohibiting me from removing it fully. Besides, as I stood strangled by my own attempts at freedom, it occured to me that removing the shirt would not solve the bottom half of my problem.
So…..I did the only thing left for me to do. I started biting the shirt out of my zipper. Yes, my dignity down the toilet (so to speak) I was reduced to my animal instints. Freedom at any cost.
Clearly not the vision of the perfect lady…..
but thank heavens for sharp incisors.
