Wednesday, September 18, 2013


I've been called many things in my 27 years of life, but gym rat isn't one of them.  Though I usually align my workout schedule with that of the solar eclipse, I've learned I can tone these thunder thighs free of charge without ever stepping foot in a YMCA.   I present you the European Squat Toilet:

It also promotes weight loss from the vomiting it induces at the sheer thought of using it..
There are two things I am quite particular about: coffee and self-tanning lotion.  I like my coffee strong and in abundance---the same goes for my self-tanner.  On a recent road trip to Italy, my love for the two left me looking like a jaundiced zebra.

After downing two coffees between Switzerland and France, I was on the lookout for the nearest bathroom (or as they call it here, the Water Closet).  Matt pulled into a rest stop and out I hopped in my new patent leather pumps.

By now, most of my readers realize I suffer from extreme anxiety.  This anxiety is particularly heightened by raw poultry and public bathrooms.  Let me paint you all a quick scene: a chemically-imbalanced brain, a near-sterile pair of fantastic new heels, and a toilet IN which you literally stand. Now let's ponder this...

Yup, you've come to the right conclusion, folks: full on mental meltdown.  I'm in tears at this point as I've just encountered one of my biggest OCD triggers. Quite the conundrum we have here: I badly must pee and we still have three hours of driving time.  Also, if you know much about European interstates, you'll know there aren't rows and rows of fast food restaurants with available toilets at every exit.  When ya find a place to go, then ya better start your flow. 

I consider my options. I could always pee in a bush---this  worked out just fine in college.  However, I am now more fearful of  legal ramifications, and the thought of an indecent exposure ticket and an arrest record trump my fear of MRSA-laced squat toilets.  For a quick, irrational second, I consider strapping on one of Amelia's Elmo diapers, but I then remember that I am a civilized member of society and civilized members pee in toilets.

I elbow the stall door shut and peer down at the gaping hole in the ground.  My teary eyes convince me that it's winking at me; taunting the last of my frayed nerves. 

The whole process is quick and ugly.  Fortunately I am donning a skirt so at least I've got that going for me.  I close my eyes and scream through the whole ordeal, and by the time my vocal cords start aching, I realize I've peed down both of my legs and onto my fancy new shoes.

I bow my head in shame and waddle back to the car. There are vertical stripes streaking my legs from what was once my self-tanner and vertical stripes streaking my face from what was once my mascara.  I lay a towel across the passenger seat and place my heels in a plastic grocery bag.  Because my husband thinks he's clever and  because every scenario needs a little pun, he smiles and asks, "Why the pissy mood?"