Fight or Flight

And now, I will tell you my most embarrassing story of all time. Because it's a Tuesday and you're probably bored. I am also a full six months past said embarrassing moment, and I think it's high time to admit to what was done.

To my friends at the D-Mark, this is for you. You (save Steph) haven't heard about it, because it was the nearly the MOST TALKED ABOUT STORY OF 2006 and I needed to be far from the state before yall found out.

Some of you (totally and completely unassociated with the D-Mark) have already heard this story, so I apologize in advance. Nonetheless, admitting you have an embarrassing story is the first step in releasing it, right?

So, the women's restroom at my old place of employment wasn't really what you imagine standard place of employment facilities to be. Instead of a room with several stalls and sinks, the women's room was actually a woman's room with a door that opened right onto our entire department. Awkward. Sometimes, women would get walked in on if they forgot to lock the door. (Paranoid to death, I would triple check the lock most times. No sound was more fearful than to be going about your business and hearing the door knob rattle.) Please, review the figure below.

The best/worst part was, that I sat on Bathroom Row. (Bad because the line would often queue up and the women would get chatty. "Working With Women," Page 1. Good because I drink a lot. Always. "Our Bodies: Go With the Flow", page 1.)

Back to the story. So the one toilet in our little cube of a restroom had been acting up as of late. Tired from overuse, it seemed to give up the ghost. It clogged, it ran constantly, it ran out of toilet paper. The women in our office, being a competent lot, were familiar with using a plunger, and were all well schooled in how to plunge. It was the unspoken rule. You clog it? You clean it. No big deal.

Until, dun dun dun. One day. The day that lives in infamy in the D-Mark's Interactive Department. I'm getting warm just thinking about it. (Ironically, I also get really really, "I'm having a hot flash" warm when I really, really have to go... but that's probably TMI and should live in the "Stories When I've Really Had to Go" series I'll be starting shortly. I really should drink less. Sigh. Why is diet soda so good? But again, I digress.)

I do my thing. I flush. The water slowly starts to spin. The suction from underneath (is there some kind of technical terminology about this? Are there any plumbers among my cyber-sleuths?) drains what was in the bowl, washes, rinses, and spins the TP and then stops. Sigh. The bowl looks clean. But I know the rule. "Thou Shalt Not Leave Any Mystery Objects in the Toilet for Thy Co-Workers."

I pick up the plunger. I flush, and plunge. The water rises slowly. I freeze. OhNoOhNoOhNo, I'm thinking in my head. Don't overflow.

It doesn't.

But again, I can't just leave it like that. So I flush, and plunge. AND THE WATER STARTS RISING. OhCrapOhCrapOhCrap, don't DO THIS TO ME, I'm mentally screaming. I rip the plunger out of the bowl, realizing that it's displacing water from the space the bowl so desperately needs. IT. DOES. NOT. MATTER.

I'm hoping that the water will slither its way to the drain in the middle of the floor. That's what the drain is designed for right? Right!? Wrong. Wrong bloody wrong.

The water, perfectly clean, I promise you, begins gushing out the top of the bowl and onto the ground.

In an act, absolutely defying the laws of water and motion (surely those exist, right?), the water does not travel down the slight gradient towards the drain, but rather is drawn by sheer force of all that is evil and unholy towards the door.

Towards the door. The door that opens up on to everyone in my department. That is passed on the way to the kitchen. In a high traffic area. Freak. Freak. Freak.

I gather my courage to vacate the bathroom. Over and over in my head I prayed that no one would be outside waiting to use the one toilet assigned to 35 women. What were my odds?

Heart beating, palms sweaty, and breathing jagged--I opened the door quickly. No one waiting. Relief. I squeeze my body out the 10 inch space I open the door, and make a beeline for my cubicle.

In the game of flight or fight, I took the road more/less traveled and fled like a bat out of hell.

However, not wanting to completely abdicate myself of any wrong doing, I decided to leave a Post-It note on the door. Nevermind that the water is seeping out from under the door and onto the carpet, I decide it's only fair. (Why?! Why did I do this? I'd already fled, I should not have returned to the scene of the crime.) This is literally what I wrote on the door:

I even tried to change my handwriting. And then I hid the pad of Post-Its I had used. I didn't want anyone to link me to the crime. I AM NOT A CRIMINAL.

The water continued its seepage onto the common space carpet. Clean. Clean. Clean water. I swear on all that is holy, the water was clean.

I sat at my cube, close enough to hear what everyone was saying. Because there was no one on which to pin the atrocious doing, the verbal assaults and judgments were flying freely. It was a big mystery no one could solve but everyone wanted to play and or had something to say. I, of course, had to join the "who done it" game else I look like the guilty party. AhhhhH! (Dante has a special place in the nth ring for hypocrites. Yie!)

Several blogs were written by D-Markers about the bathroom "problem" that escalated to a catastrophe that fateful, fateful day. (I tried in vain to find them, but I promise, they exist.) Pure mayhem lived in that department for a good 25 minutes--the department was up in arms and ready to loot and plunder. After some time (minutes, days, weeks, it all felt the same), I returned to my cube, sat down, stared at my computer screen and stroked a hidden stack of Post-It notes in my purse.