30,000 feet, five hours of uninterrupted bliss

I boarded the plane to Phoenix this morning with blood shot eyes and an impatient, and emptied spirit from six days of conferencing in Boston. While the convention itself was remarkable (on a variety of levels), what it didn’t offer was sleep or time to yourself. As I’ve gotten older, I’ve learned the value these two factors have in the recipe of my happiness. 

So I was a tad edgy.

I was ready to be back in Arizona, albeit for just under 24 hours to hop on another flight to Arkansas. I’d identified my 15A window seat, and gestured to my already seated row mates in 15B and 15C to let me in. 15C didn’t look pleased to be getting up, which was confusing since he looked a lot like Santa.  Well, a Boston version of Santa in Red Sox gear. My carryon bag was ridiculously heavy, and to make matters worse, I had selected a silk blouse with sharp buttons on the shoulder. The strap was no doubt creating a permanent imprint into my thin, alcohol-flushed membrane. Just as I began the awkward “duck and two-step shuffle maneuver” to get into my window seat - the whole time desperate to lighten my load - a woman behind me got my attention.

“Excuse me, you.  Um… that’s my husband in your row -- 15C [Santa]. Would you mind trading me seats? I figured it wouldn’t be too much trouble since we’re both window seats…” She asked the question reticent; like there was a good chance I’d not accept her offer.

“No problem,” I returned. Whatever. Just move. I scooted back out of my row and into a completely empty one behind me. Congratulating myself on the luck of the situation, I overheard the woman in the middle seat ask this woman if she wanted to sit by her husband then, since although they’d arranged to now be seated in the same row, they were split by 15B. The Santa husband, silent until this time, piped up with an emphatic NO. Surprised, I looked up at him and waiting for the laughter to follow. Nobody laughed, and his eyes were hard as they met mine.

And that was that. The woman who’d negotiated her new row casually side-stepped right into her new seat, followed by a puzzled middle-seater, and an angry Boston Santa husband.

A girl did end up coming to my row, but we were blessed with an empty middle seat the whole ride across the country. She spent most of the five-hour flight openly reading 50 shades. I sat relishing in my solitude at the expense of a dysfunctional marriage.

Battle of the Loo

I’m the type of person that, often to my relationship detriment, is constantly competing. I compete as I’m driving, bargain shopping, selecting produce at the store, even against my roommate for things as trivial as who leaves for work first in the morning (a race I nearly always win but the times I don’t have been known to ruin entire mornings as I sulk into my cubicle with a defeated travel coffee). Sometimes, the competition comes in the form of races or time trials against myself– how quickly can I get from my desk to the office bathroom? Can I take fewer steps and also improve my time? Can I hold my breath the entire way? The result of these challenges has often been simply a very awkward looking girl in the back hallway from my office to the restroom taking quick, elongated steps, pale from not breathing.

I decided it was time for a new sport, and to up the ante even. What has seemed to take roots lately has been a “me against the office complex” challenge centering on… the first-floor community bathroom, my mini battlefield. Allow me to offer a sketch of the course of play. This is a fairly standard six-stall community restroom. The first five stalls are standard size, and the last is handicapped. We’ve got auto-flush toilets and no courtesy music. Sinks are auto, and despite everything else being automatic, we have paper towel hand dyers, no air dryers. It’s state government, so we’re not talking frills. I think you can guess where this is going; the object is to get in and out undetected. If you’re a guy, you might not get it. The ladies know what I’m sayin’.

Each game commences with the pushing open of the heavy bathroom door. It feels like a freshly dealt hand of poker upon each entrance. Your fate of the game is hinged upon the contents. I’ve crafted a few solid approaches to navigate any situation.  

You enter at the same time as another go-er (if it’s a coworker, disengage. This only applies to a stranger).  You both settle into your respective stalls. There's always that awkward silent moment. The other might rattle with the tp, or shift their feet, perhaps even a long sigh. Your hope is that they get in, get out and leave you in peace. However, there are times that they too want to be left in peace. It’s in this instance that you’re forced to engage in a stall-down.

It all depends on the urgency of the situation, but in my experience, you can almost never wait these people out. They are government employees and I’ve found their threshold to return to their desks to be much higher than mine. Leave and come back.

You enter to find a squatter, and by the position of their feet, they’re not planning to vacate any time soon. Depending upon the look of the shoes, you may or may not be able to draw them out of their stall by sink activity and clicking of makeup to kill time. Following etiquette (they arrived first), you must defer to them. Your choice is either skilled auto-flushing, or to simply leave and come back.

You find the place empty. You not only have your choice of stalls – a great position to be in – and you also have first right of continuance. Act fast, since time is limited. In an 11-story building, the bottom level restroom is rarely empty. I almost always select the handicapped stall at the end, lovingly referred to by others in my office as “the apartment.” If you’re able to get in and out without disturbance, you’ve won.

I could keep going, but think perhaps I should save some matters to the imagination. Maybe it’s a little late for that… oh well. Game on, suckers.