There are 33 quick steps from my desk to the ladies room at my office. I know. I counted.
What? I'm a thirsty girl. Thirsty girls have to pee. All day long.
Good Golly Damn Criminey, I must make more trips to the bathroom than the guy who smokes* goes outside.
I wonder what smoker guy thinks of my frequent dashes past his office (on step 25) and if he keeps count. First of all, if he is keeping count that's just creepy. He should stick to surfing his kid's friend's Facebook profiles (this too is creepy, it just doesn't involve me so creep on smoker man). Secondly, I hope he's timing me. I'm super fast.
I'm so fast that I once had a line of guys chip in and buy me a drink because of my super fast ability.
Ok, that sounds superbly dirty. But honestly, this is one of the innocent stories.
Here's what happened....It was Mardi Gras at the Venice Cafe in St. Louis a few years back. Myself and about 200 other close drinking buddies had been celebrating for about a half a day (seriously a good time was being had) and there were two bathroom locations: one down a flight of rickety stairs and another up a wide staircase to the second floor. The downstairs toilets were separate boy/girl rooms with a few stalls each. The one upstairs was a single unisex bathroom. As any of you half-day celebrators know, falling up stairs is a lot less painful than the opposite. I headed up.
When I got to the top there was a decent size line outside the ONE STALL UNISEX TOILET. So I took a spot behind some of my fellow half-day drunk friends and waited.
And waited. And then waited some more. Oh, and guess what? More waiting. The line was moving pretty damn slow. Then I realized that standing in front of me was a group girls. Giggly, drunk girls. With large purses.
About the same time this situation became apparent to me, it also dawned on the guys lined up behind me. When the door opened, the giggly drunk girls (with purses the size of overnight bags) slid right in...all together as if they were carpooling to work.
I kid you not, seven minutes went by. Seven painful, bladder-close-to-erupting minutes shared between me and my new friends in guy-club. Ok, actually they didn't really start off as friends, they were more like angry enemies looking at me with disgust. They thought I was another one of those giggly drunk purse carrying bitches who was going to take another painful seven minutes of their lives with my turn. Except I don't travel in a pack to the bathroom and I only bring a purse to places that my backpack is out of place.
I had to clear my name before I cleared my bladder. So I turned to the guys and said, "Do you see me carrying anything? I guarantee there's no makeup hiding in these pockets...no cell phone for texting while I'm supposed to be drying my hands....and no gossip drama I have to share. I'm here to do one thing and do it fast."
A few of them looked quite hopeful. One guy who might have been their club President did not and said, "How can we believe that you won't fuck around in there like the others?" Who by the by, still have NOT come out of the bathroom yet--I get why the girl/bathroom stereotype exists. The bet became that I could do the thing, wash and dry my hands and be out of the bathroom in under three minutes. They were doubtful and said they'd buy me a drink if I succeeded. I did.
I think I set a record that night, at least that's what it seemed like from the responses of guy-club members who consequently bought me a beer and a shot for my excellent, super fast ability.
*Yep, just one smoker in our office. We're a healthy bunch.
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