The New Lost and Found World
Women go to the restroom for many reasons, besides the obvious one of course.
- To check to see if the given outfit that day makes them look plumper than they intended; or
- To inspect if their hair is looking fierce today; or
- To ensure that their make-up provides enough coverage to elude the spectator from their activities of the night before.
A few days ago, I walked into the lady's room to dispose of the bio-hazardous materials I was holding onto so dearly. Walking into any designated "room," there are two things that I always observe: was there anyone else there with me (to avoid the unpleasant conversation you must have when you run into someone you know), and if there was, why were they so quiet (which leads to this internal panic attack that I must rush to appease their obvious discomfort of being rudely interrupted).
This specific day, I was in and out of that sucker in less than 2 minutes! (Thanks Mom for a giving me a big family and only one toilet.) Done with my deed, I prepared myself to face the world, praying quietly that no one else had entered during my quiet time. Marching to the sink, a large multi-sink contraption with a mirror that runs from one end of the wall to another, I was on a mission to wash my hands. Did I mention that there was an even bigger floor to ceiling mirror by the door? Well, that's a topic for another day.
Singing "Happy Birthday" to ensure a full cleansing of my hands, I stared at myself, one cannot help but do this. As I am finishing my second verse, I saw reflected in the mirror something on the counter of what looked to be a folded piece of material. I guiltily glanced around. Yep, still alone. I dried my hands, not caring that I had thrown the towel on the floor and not in the garbage, and walked over to this enigma. I gently picked up the abandoned material, careful to use the tips of my fingers to touch it (NYC bedbugs come to mind immediately), unfold it, and hold my breath for when something supernatural, a.k.a a roach, happened to pop out.
As a woman, you learn to appreciate clothing for its vast usefulness of self-identification and exploration. A great piece of clothing can completely transform a woman's self-image and create this platform that we proudly stand on and scream at the top of our lungs, "I look amazing!".
But before that part of proclamation kicked in, I had to check the size and the brand. What's the point of appreciating something that doesn't fit, hence causing a deep psychological lesion that will in turn require hours upon hours of therapy, and something cheap, where the wrong turn will lead again to hours upon hours of therapy to remove the image of having a homeless man "show" me how happy he is that this manufacturer went cheap on his materials.
Two seconds later, I do my investigation and my conclusion: perfect size and nice brand.
Now, please don't get me wrong here and categorize me as someone who is so poor she steals clothes from restrooms. On the contrary, I am lucky enough to have found something to add to a small, yet resourceful wardrobe. My mind didn't go to such a place, where I am stealing for an unsuspecting victim. All I thought was, "Thank you half-naked woman. You showed your bottom so that I can look great in wool." Unfair it seems now in hind sight..... okay, not really. A woman undressed in a public restroom and left skirt-less. Her interpretation of casually dressed Friday's had been transformed into peep show Friday's.
The trick was walking out of there without being noticed. I folded it nicely, careful not to let it fully touch my clothes, bedbugs again. Walking out, I tried my best to look as inconspicuous as possible in an empty hall. I headed straight into the office and to my designated desk (did I mention, I was a guest in this building?) and placed the merchandise in my bag.
I will make one last confession. The following work day, I visited the bathroom at the same time, hoping my personal shopper left me a matching top.
A woman can dream, can she.