Seinfeld was a show that proved that stories could survive with minimal plotlines. While I make no claims to the acclaimed genius of Jerry and the gang, what follows is a hopeful attempt of what the great Qoheleth (the writer of Ecclesiastes) would call “meaningless,” “vanity,” or “a chasing after the wind.” Sidenote: I make no claims to any bit of spirituality but simply hold to the patterns of any blog—narcissistic, exaggeratedly important, and space to fill.
Due to a series of unfortunate events, I was forced to use the women’s restroom at a Wendy’s tonight. Immediately, I wonder how many sexist jokes will pop into the fickle minds of all, say, three people that potentially read this blog. I am rather proud of myself because this was the first time that I was able to sit in the luxury that is a women’s restroom: open space, a painting on the wall, convenient trash can by the toilet, and your option of paper towels or blow dryer. I found myself with a little bit of reverse-Freudian vagina envy. Now this normally doesn’t happen, as I am a rather content person—minus large amounts of hair that my Syrian, Italian, Scotch-Irish, Puerto Rican, Columbian, and Ecuadorian ancestors were so kind to leave me. But this porcelain dream was something worth the sex change.
I did not plan to enter the room of much wonder among the male sex. The plan was simply to avoid the line at the Land of Coffee and Broken Dreams (Starbucks), but someone hindered my strategic plan at Wendy’s. Like a person who gets in their car and doesn’t leave right away—even though there is clearly another car parked near them waiting for their spot—this nameless nuisance would not leave. All the signs of hope were there—the flush, the facet water, paper towels pumping out—yet the great doorway to heaven would not open for the mere earthlings to find relief from one hell of a pain. Thus, the threat many have made had to become action. With a moment of hesitation and quick glance at the unsuspecting fast-food congregation, entry into the forbidden temple commenced. Gender and sex walls began to dissolve.
Yet, I found the entire process rather awkward. I didn’t want to remain in the Wendy’s honeymoon sweet for fear of the staff learning that I was not truly allowed in this particular room. Even worse, hearing the jiggle of the door, panicking and saying, “Someone’s in hear,” knowing that while I can pass for a tenor, my voice rings like a bass as well. But there was nothing I could do. These things take time. Luckily, that blue painting distracted me…but not enough to remember anything else about it other than it was blue. As my endeavor came to a close, I was even more on edge. What if someone was waiting outside just to point and laugh. I knew there was only one thing left to do. No glances. Just walk out the door and don’t look back. Wash your hands.
There’s the door to the bathroom.
The door out the restaurant.
The shopping centre parking lot.
Another “I never” is gone. The list of things to do before the next big bang is getting smaller than the earth’s core. Maybe next time, Ill go into a bathroom with more than one stall. Maybe next time, I’ll be okay with a line of women—maybe ask one of them out. Maybe next time, this will become a habit. Maybe next time, I’ll remember to flush.