A Stall Story

Last week, I had a meeting in a shiny office building with a woman named Gina. Gina is nice and tough and professional. She talks fast and she runs the show. Her assistant offered me a glass of water; it was tall and clear with big glorious ice cubes that clinked. It tasted filtered and delicious. It ran through me like a river.

So I was glad when Gina got up to take a break and use the restroom. Now usually, I would wait until Gina got back from the restroom and then casually decide that, what the heck, I should use it too, smile politely, exit quickly. Not today. She must have seen something flash across my face when she started to excuse herself. "Come on," and she waved me toward the door. "I'll show you where it is." Ok. We'll go together.

Maybe I'm alone on this one, but I feel like there's something private about peeing. When you're in the restroom with someone else, it's best to pretend that you're alone. Or at least that you aren't paying attention to them and what they're doing in the other stall. Somehow, talking to someone while you're both peeing induces a mental image of that person on the toilet, peeing and talking. Which is, of course, exactly what they're doing. But I don't want to see it.

So we go into the bathroom together and each take a stall. I start to pee. She starts to pee. I am not paying attention to her. "So," she says. "How do you like your new job so far?" Now she's done it. "Great," I answer to Gina, who I am now envisioning sitting on the toilet, peeing. Hm.

The peeing sounds finally end, and now we're both pulling up our nylons, zipping our skirts, reaching to flush. Gina is the first to exit her stall: I hear water running at the sink, soap being dispensed. I flush and I'm going to join her for the awkward hand-washing side-by-side, oops, excuse me I need a paper towel exchange, but I can't open the door to my stall. I turn the little silver knob to the left and push. No give. I turn it to the right. I turn it to the left and right. This will make a fantastic first impression: the girl who can't even figure out how to work the bathroom stall. It will be one of those things that Gina will forever remember about me, like a sign around my neck that reads: "This is the girl that got stuck in the shitter." I do the fake laugh. "I'm stuck in here," I say.

"What?"

Rather than yell to powerful businesswoman-on-the-toilet Gina that I am indeed locked in the bathroom stall and can't get out, I throw my weight against the door: it opens and I just about fall off my high heels and into the beige tiled wall facing the stall. I look down the row of stalls at Gina to see if she knows what excruciating business just transpired, but she is just drying her hands, picking lint from her sweater. I straighten my jacket and walk over to the sinks. I compliment Gina on the quality of the soap and the availability of hand lotion. She holds the door open for me as we leave the restroom to return to our meeting.

There's all those sayings about women having to go to the bathroom in groups, movies showing women in group make-up sessions, crowded together in some great female bonding ecstasy. Right. I'll take the single stall, please.