Better than a Sock in the Jaw...

I am not the most coordinated of people.

I know, I know.  You're probably thinking, "No WAY.  Leauxra is the epitome of grace and dexterity!  She must be!  She climbs mountains and shit!"

I mean seriously.  Look how frigging graceful I look on skis (even if I am posing for a picture here and not actually skiing).

Either that or your are remembering the time that I BIT MY TONGUE SO HARD THAT I BLED FOR THREE DAYS.  Wait, was that TWICE that I did that?  Or that time that I punched myself in the nose CROCHETING A BALACLAVA.  Or that other time that I burnt my taste buds out of my head with an OVER COOKED HOT POCKET.  Or that time I pulled a muscle in my back trying a ZUMBA CLASS?  Oh, or that time I almost fell off the stationary bike during a SPIN CLASS and got a blister in a rather... ah... delicate spot, and I complained so much that my mother suggested I wear a helmet next time?

Yeah.  Ah.  I guess I can sort of see how you might think I may lack a little in the dexterity department.

I guess.

I remember this one time back when I worked at the Evil Tech Startup company and I was on the overnight shift.  I discovered the awesomeness of a wireless headset, and was all excited to be untethered from my phone.

I was spinning around and around in my chair (it was super spinny)  like some kind of demented top.  I would pull my feet in to go faster, and stretch out my legs to slow down.  It was awesome.  I kept myself entertained on the long cold lonely nightshift for a good hour when I heard someone walk into the office. I immediately stretched out my feet so I could stop when WHACK!  My head slammed into the cubicle door and sent me sprawling into the hallway.

Graceful!

OK.  Maybe it isn't really a surprise that I lack coordination.

Still.

I like to think that I can learn.  That I can grow.  That I can pay fucking attention to things.

I like to think that, anyway.

I would be wrong to think it though.

Today, I had to use the bathroom at work.  Isn't it funny how so many of my stories occur in the bathroom at work?  Huh.  Something to ponder...

Anyway.

I had just gotten off a conference call that I forgot about until it was about to start, so I didn't have time to pee before I dialed in.  I sat squirming in my chair for a half an hour while I tried to listen to some VERY IMPORTANT INFORMATION, and all I could think about was how badly I needed to go pee and how very stupid it was to down a bottle of Diet Mountain Dew first thing in the morning (yes, I am a morning soda drinker.  I like coffee in the afternoon, but in the morning it's gotta be soda).

Some people will run to the restroom while on the call, either leaving their headsets at their desks, or putting them on mute and making a dash for it, as if they could listen and urinate at the same time.

I am FAR too anxious a person for that kind of thing.  If I leave my phone behind, I might miss something, and if I mute my phone and just go, what happens if someone calls on me to say something at an inconvenient time?  I would forever be known as "The Flusher" or something, and everyone would associate me with toilets.

I would die from embarrassment.

I managed to hold it through the call, and as soon as it was over I threw my headset on my desk and took off for the bathroom.  I walked in, noted that I was alone in the four stall restroom, and picked the first stall.  I sat down and let loose, an unintentional "AHHHHHHHHHH" coming out of my mouth.

Damn that felt good.

I stat there, basking in the wonderful feeling of finally getting to pee after holding it for too long, and reached for the toilet paper.

Wait a minute.

Toilet paper?

What the?

Normally, there are two rolls of industrial sized wiping tissue right at eye level if you are sitting.  It is an ingenious design set up so that if one is empty, you can slide this little lever over, and expose the other full roll.  This is checked daily, and I had never even seen one side that was entirely empty.

Today, they were not only BOTH empty, but there was no evidence that there had ever even BEEN any toilet paper.  It was just an empty dispenser.

"Shit," I whispered.

I sat there for a moment, thinking.

No one had entered the bathroom since I had, and the next stall was RIGHT THERE.

My mind reeled.  Could I make it to the next stall without anyone seeing me?  What if a manager walks in and my pants are around my ankles?  I'll look like some kind of pervert or something.  Would I have to register as a sex offender if I exposed myself at work like that?  I don't see why, I mean, up in the locker room, those old ladies are constantly running around in their birthday suits, and they have a lot more exposed that just a bottom... aw, screw it.

I decided to go for it.

I pulled up my pants most of the way and stood up, peeking out the door.  No one.

I hastily opened the stall door while the automatic toilet flushed behind me, and staggered quickly (if a bit awkwardly) into the next stall and shut the door.

Whew.  Safe!

There were two full rolls of toilet paper in this stall, just as God and maintenance intented, and I dried myself and zipped up.

There.  That's better.  I smiled, finally relaxing.

I opened the stall door to leave, and noticed that the toilet didn't flush behind me.

Right.  It didn't see me because I hadn't been sitting.  I waved my hand at it, but it still didn't flush because I was too far from the sensor, so I stepped back to the toilet, leaned down and pushed the little button.

As I turned to leave, I slammed my face into the open stall door hard enough to see stars.

"MotherFUCKER!" I shouted, and I punched the stainless steel door hard enough that it bounced back and almost hit me again.

I put my hand out with forced calm to stop the reverberating door and I leaned my head against it with my eyes shut.

"Ow," I whispered.  "Ow ow ow ow ow."  The pain kept growing, like a stubbed toe, only on my cheekbone.

After a minute or two, I opened my eyes.  My sunglasses had fallen off my head.  I touched my cheek.  "Ow," I whispered again, in case I hadn't heard myself the first fifty times, and I picked up my sunglasses.

I walked to the sink to wash my hands, looking at myself in the mirror.

"Ow," I said to my reflection.  "Fuck."

There was no noticeable mark, but it still hurt like a mother, and may have looked slightly swollen.  I had to take several deep breaths to keep from crying.

"Ow," I said one final time and turned abruptly and left.  I walked back to my desk, hand on my poor battered head, still fighting tears.

Yeah.  Pretty much... I ah.  Stubbed my face.

If I get a black eye, I am going to file a restraining order to make sure work stays at least 500 feet from me at all times, that abusive bastard.