Evasive Eevans Events

Of course my friend Jenny’s name is not really Eevans.     It’s Evans, from Unremarkable Files.        

slob, humor, my friend Jenny Evans

Jenny Evans!

 That’s #1 of the pingbacks I’m giving her, so hopefully, she’ll forgive me for taking artistic license with her name!      (That one’s mine, not hers, but I promise plenty more of hers to come!!)

Being the mother of a large family, (6! kids), (#2) Jenny is all too familiar with the necessity of public restrooms.  (#3)         And the hygiene, (or NOT!) (#4) of the same.     (Hey! I just realized that one is a 2-fer!     Hi Katie!)

Okay, now that I’ve made sure you’re well acquainted  (#5) with Jenny, on to what this post is about.

Yes, public restrooms,

but in a different aspect.   Namely. being trapped in one like an animal (#6) in a cage.      And desperate to get out, but can’t.      And I can’t reach my leg, to chew it off, to facilitate escape!

When I have to ride the scooter at stores, (due to my on-going leg issues, (first it was the right knee, then the left groin, now the left sciatic- yay!  I’ve learned a LOT of anatomy the last few years!), sometimes I can’t even get up to walk into the restroom, and have to drive. It’s tricky enough, just getting in.      But, if it’s a swing-in door, it’s all good!!      I just run that puppy into the door, hard enough to open it!      But gently!    I don’t go full speed!    (1/4th mile an hour)      Cuz then I’d have another whip lash too, to add to all the other delights I’m experiencing!

Once I’m in, done, and ready to leave, that’s when the real problem happens.         If it was a swing-in door, and was easy to get in, then it’s pull-to-get-out.         And that’s a REALLY BIG PROBLEM!        I know I have long arms, but they ain’t THAT long!       Ya have to grab the handle, pull, wait, ya can only pull 2 inches, then the door bangs into the basket.    Okay, we can do this.     Back up, try to grab handle again.    Wait, now I’ve backed up too far, and can’t grab the handle.       Alright, try again.      I have a college degree for Pete’s sake, surely I can figure out how to get outta the bathroom!

And just WHY don’t they have automatic door buttons in a restroom that is supposedly handicapped equipped??        

Surely I can’t be the ONLY one who has trouble, can I??      (PLEASE tell me I’m not the only one who can’t fight their way outta a paper room!)

Eventually, I just give up outta frustration, and sheer exhaustion.    Then, in about 10 minutes, I’m glad I’m still in there, due to my overactive bladder.      Whew!      Okay, now to wait for rescue.         Why, oh why did I forget my handy, dandy emergency wrench, so I can bang on the pipes, and draw attention to my predicament kit?        But then I realize, I haven’t brushed up on my Morris Code for awhile, so I’d probably just be saying, “Hey!   Love ya!”  or something, instead of “I’m trapped in the restroom.  Help!”

After 25 minutes, I’m still going strong, fighting dehydration, because I usually always have my water bottle with me.    slob, humor, definitely not clutter      Bonus!      If I drink it all, I know how to refill it, there’s running water here!

30 minutes in, I’ve succumbed to hunger, after scrabbling around frantically in my purse for something to eat, and finding nothing except 2 brownie crumbs, and the empty wrapper of a Twix.     (Which I totally proceed to lick clean.     Hey, it’s life or death now, man!)       So, now it’s a slow decline into death, from this point on.

35 minutes in, I’ve started writing my last will and testament,

slob, humor, last will and testament

leaving my body to science.     (They’re gonna want it too!       To study how a 300 lb woman can starve to death in under an hour.      In the middle of a GROCERY store.)

Update: AFTER I published this, THEN I noticed I wrote “drying” instead of dying.  Oy vey!)

40 minutes in, all hope is gone.      Drawing a face on my purse, so I can kiss it good bye.     (How is it that in a store this busy, NO ONE has had to go in the last 40 minutes???)

 

Slumped over, in the final throes of death, dimly I hear panicked screaming.      “MA’AM!!   MA’AM!!     ARE YOU OKAY??”            I rouse up, slowly, blinking away the haze of the afterlife.       “Are you an angel??”        “Uh, no ma’am, I’m the janitor.    Do you need help?”

Sobbing in relief, all I can say is:  “Just open the door!    All I wanna do is go home!”

 

Ah, the events of an evasive Eevens life.     (I had to cross out Jenny’s name.    I don’t think she wants to be associated with this sad tale of incompetence!)