My worst nightmare

It came true.

For years and years and years I've had two worst nightmares. Well, one of them came true the other day.

Background: This particular nightmare involves me going into a public restroom, finding an available stall -- which, if you're a woman, is no small thing -- but -- and this is a big but (no pun intended) there is (1) no door on the stall; (2) one of the walls is missing; and (3) I'm exposed for the entire entourage in the restroom to see what I'm doing.

Now, for some of you that wouldn't be a nightmare. I mean this particular situation. But, as my husband puts it, I have bathroom issues. Yes, I do. I admit it. I won't go into one that is not clean. I will only frequent a restroom in a well-known restaurant -- no gas stations for me. When we moved to Cincinnati, I found every clean, well-scrubbed restroom in center city.

So, here's where my nightmare really started, I think. Before 1970, in school restrooms -- at least the girls' room -- the stalls were at least six feet high, with maybe a foot below that was open. I had no problems in school restrooms. But in the late 60s/early 70s they started making the restrooms with four-foot high walls (about the size of a 6-year-old munchkin). Being a teacher, this was just not something (as my sister-in-law puts it -- doing my duty) I wanted to do in front of other students or other teachers. I like privacy in this what I consider private action.

So, this nightmare began when I was teaching because here I was, faced with restrooms with really, really short walls, where anyone who was higher than a 6-year-old could see what I was doing and, if so inclined, view my "private" parts -- that's what that area of the body was called back then. The reason for this switch was because it was easier for supervision of the girls by the taller teachers. So, here I was, a teacher and I found myself with infection after infection after infection because I would just not bare myself to "the world."

Ladies, I know some of you might be able to relate to this, and some of you are saying, so what's the big deal here.

Well, here it comes. Yesterday, Alan and I went to a well-known chain restaurant for dinner -- okay, I'll tell you which one -- it was Ruby Tuesday's. This particular RT was located in some town in North Carolina. I went into the handicapped stall, because, frankly the potty is higher in the handicapped stalls and I can get off the seat without much pain to my knees. Those short things they have in all the other stalls are another nightmare for me to use. In fact, that same day -- and I'll get back to RT in a minute -- I was in a stall on one of the shorties, and it took me almost five minutes to figure out how to get off the pot -- finally I figured out that if I made like Solomon and tried to knock the walls down, I had enough pressure on my arms to relieve the pressure on my knees and could get off the seat. Talk about panic attack!

Back to RTs in North Carolina. So, I get myself situated on this higher-level potty. I had pushed the lock on the door and tested it -- another quirk I have -- the door to the stall must lock! It didn't open when I tested it. But somehow, a vacuum seal was broken when two other ladies came in from the hallway, and badda-bing the door to my stall sprung open and not only was I exposed to these ladies, but also the men in the hallway.

I am so very glad that I will never see any of those people ever again -- talk about being mortified -- and yes, my worst nightmare came true. I'm still blushing over this. And on the rest of our trek home today, I held it until I got to my daughter's home in Cold Spring -- a total of 6 hours -- and no cajoling from Alan could get me to use a public restroom on today's trip home from our overnight stop.

I am now in the habit of carrying towelettes because I hate those blower things. Now, I'm going to carry a roll of duct tape in with me, and make sure that the door doesn't every spring open on me again.