I am not a public pooper. If I am out and about and it happens to come on me, I’m thrown into a bit of a bind. This has been a problem with me for forever.
If I were home, it would be no problem. Of course. But if I go into a public restroom, my sphincter tightens up as if it were a boa constrictor sucking the life out of its prey. It’s like my bowels are on center stage. With bright lights and an audience. Yes, I’m embarrassed to admit it but my digestive system and I suffer from serious stage freight.
I went away on a girl’s scrapbook retreat this past weekend. In the middle of scrapping my 2010 vacation to the Outer Banks, I felt the urge. It was strong and it was sudden. And I wasn’t home. Obviously. Thank God for hotel rooms. Because I was gonna be needing my private stage, err, bathroom. Pronto.
With a sense of relief, I made it to the door of my room and swiped my “key.” Instead of the welcome light of green, I got red. I swiped again. And again. And a-freaking-gain. Red. Red. RED. After a few expletives, I speed walked to the elevator, climbed on and made my way to the front desk.
There is nothing worse than standing there telling the front desk employee that you need a new key while doing everything in your power to not accidentally let out any bit of why you so urgently need to get into your room at 2:30 on a Saturday afternoon. This is the one time you don’t want them to be so friendly. No, I don’t give a damn about the wind outside. I’m more concerned about the wind inside. Please give me my new key before you need to call the janitor.
I know why my key didn’t work. I started to put it in my pocket with my cell phone. Started to. Which means I had it in my hand, surrounded by my fingers and palm. When I felt my phone with the back of my pointer, I knew it meant “danger.” And I immediately retreated. I took it out before I let it go. Because I know the damage it can do. It’s happened to me before. A lot. But I was pretty sure I stopped the process of demagnetization. Apparently, I did not.
I miss the good old days of a plain, old metal key. I really do. Sure, it’s not as easy to carry. It doesn’t slide into your wallet without a snag. Or can’t be put into the back pocket of your jeans without you getting poked. So what? It also doesn’t run the risk of demagnetizing. I would hang that friggin’ piece of metal around my neck if it meant I didn’t have to make umpteen trips to the front desk. Every dang time I stay in a hotel. Every dang time. No lie.
Demagnetization. It’s a bad, bad word. Please don’t use it around me. And by the way, I made it. By the skin of my…never mind. I wouldn’t want to give you too much information. You know, some things should be sacred.