Do Something Scary

Eleanor Roosevelt once said, “Do something every day that scares you.”

I try to live by that credo. Some days, though, I have to go looking for things that scare me. Last month, I went too far.

I met a friend for lunch in Palo Alto. We went to one of those pretentious places that are overpriced and overloud, but they serve a great crab cake sandwich. I washed it down with three Arnold Palmers (half iced tea, half lemonade-you’ve got to try it).

I was more than sufficiently hydrated, but I failed to heed my mother’s sage advice regarding bladder issues (“Never get into a car with a full one.”) The chic downtown restaurant had an oh-so-trendy unisex bathroom. I’ll use one if I’m desperate, but honestly, boys-did your mothers never teach you to aim? I never go into a bathroom that is for both caballeros and senoritas unless I’m too drunk to care. (For the record, this hasn’t happened since 1987.)

My friend and I air-kissed outside the restaurant and I drove to my next appointment, a meeting with a client. We were meeting at a coffee shop, also in Palo Alto. I was a bit early, so after I found a spot in a public lot, I opened the windows and took a few minutes to review my client’s materials.

Then, without warning, Arnold cried “Fore!” and I had to GO. I quickly weighed my options. I could go to the coffee shop, where I knew you had to walk through the kitchen to get to the bathroom, a trip that drew stares from the kitchen help. Also, seeing restaurant kitchens has never been a pleasant experience for me. It always ends with me pledging to cook dinner every night at home, where the floor is not covered with a greasy rubber mat with bits of raw chicken stuck to it.

I went with Option B: the scary one. I ran cross-legged to the public toilet in the corner of the parking lot.

Now, I’ve read about these toilets. People smoke crack, turn tricks, and do all sorts of unspeakable things in them. Still, they are supposed to be self-cleaning and I was too desperate not to trust in the efficacy of the automatic power-wash promised after each use.

I put my quarter in and the door slid open. I was unprepared for the scene that awaited me. There was no toilet seat (just like in prison, Keeper told me later) and there was a pair of brown underpants on the floor. They had once been white, if you catch my drift.

I backed up, horrified at what lay before me. I wish I could say that it was Eleanor’s advice that made me go in, for I was certainly frightened. Alas, it was not bravery but sheer need that propelled me forward, for once my bladder comes within 10 feet of a receptacle, there is no telling it to wait.

I hovered as best I could, and then I discovered, too late, that the long tail of my shirt was hanging below me, being christened with recycled Arnold Palmers.

I jumped up, knocking my sunglasses off my head and onto the floor, where they remain to this day for all I know. Holding my soggy shirt in front of me, I thrust it under the faucet. That’s when I discovered that the water and soap dispensers are also automatic, and it’s thirty seconds per customer, thank you very much.

I cleaned my shirttail the best I could and wrung it out. I looked at my watch. I had six minutes before my meeting.

Wet and wrinkled, I ran to the coffee shop, my briefcase held over my wet spot. I ordered a large cup of decaf and sat in the sun, fanning my shirt.

My client arrived. “How are you?” he asked.

“I was a lot better before I spilled coffee on myself,” I lied.

“One of those days, huh?” he chuckled.

“Yep, one of those scary ones.” I answered.