A few weeks ago, you may recall me writing about the new bathroom policy at the office – a policy which required us to use a key to unlock the bathroom door. I had my problems with it, as you may have guessed, but I also ended up having my own private bathroom for a little while, which was nice.
Well, that secret got out eventually – as expected – and lately I have come to another realization about this bathroom situation. That realization?
If you gotta go, don't wait.
In our old office, the bathroom was literally around the corner. You could get there in 10 seconds or less, which came in handy because in a deadline-driven business – where there's often not a second to spare when it's crunch time – sometimes you've gotta hold it in.
Now though, not only is the bathroom down a long hallway, you have to a) find a key (which is usually easy because it hangs on an appointed hook, but sometimes it gets misplaced) and b) you need to actually unlock a tricky, temperamental lock that has a tendency to stick.
Normally, spending 20 seconds tracking down a key, 15 seconds walking and 5-6 seconds jiggling the key in a lock are no big deal, but like I said – sometimes it's a rush.
Why am I telling you all this? Well, let's just say there were a few close calls this week, courtesy of frantic near-missed deadlines combined with extra-large coffees from Tim Horton's.
And it reminded me of a story – here's why that "too much information" label is being used on this post – that I probably have only mentioned to the people I went to Cancun with a few years ago. And even then, I might've just kept this one to myself. Either way, I figured I'd share it now.
As expected, a great deal of time during our stay in Cancun was spent sitting by the pool in the sun. More specifically – drinking while sitting by the pool in the sun. On more than a few occasions, this was done for hours and hours on end. And while I don't need to tell you all what happens to your bladder when you've drank 10 beers and 8 margaritas in one sitting, this posed a problem: The pool-area washrooms at this particular resort were, to say the least, disgusting.
Absolutely putrid. They were to be avoided at all costs – and actually for the first few days, I don't believe any of us actually knew they existed at all.
So, when the time came, it meant you'd have to hoof it from the pool all the way back to your hotel room to pee. It wasn't exactly far, but it wasn't exactly right next door either. The fact that you were barefoot and often dripping wet – usually on slippery tile floors – didn't speed things up either.
One one particular occasion, I decided to wait a little too long. Eventually of course, I had to make a mad, drunken dash back to my room. My feet slipped with every step, I was drunk off my ass, and also had to run up two flights of stairs to the third floor (there was no chance I was waiting for the elevator).
And when I got to my room, I fumbled drunkenly (my hands were wet too, remember) with my room card, and then upon opening the door I took two exaggerated steps into the "foyer" and into the bathroom to the immediate right.
I wish I could tell you that I made it.
I really wish I could.
But sometimes life doesn't work out the way you'd like.
Sometimes your bladder just lets 'er go as you run through the bathroom door. And sometimes you're in such a crazy, panicked rush that you slip on the polished, wet tile floor and smash your elbow into the countertop, leaving a helluva mark. (This is the part my fellow travelers may remember. I think I just said, 'I slipped on the wet floor' and left it at that.)
And sometimes you just have to be thankful that nobody else was around to see it happen, and that you brought an extra pair of shorts.
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