Notch

You don’t get out of this life without one seriously embarrassing bathroom story.

Here’s one  share about the time I was trapped in my pants, literally, inside the only washroom in a historic building during the intermission of a music performance. True story.

The minute the band announced the last song of their first set, I made a quick exit to the loo, before the crowd got up to do the same. I’d been holding my bladder for about 20 minutes at this point, because I was into the show. 

Twenty-year-old Kelly could hold it for hours without fear. Present-day Kelly knows now means right now. 

I quietly excused myself and walked the labyrinth of aisles and darkened stairways following the washroom signs to the basement of the old facility where I found a line of like-minded souls snaking along the corridor. 

Great. A long wait. What could go wrong? Clench.

Surely there was another washroom somewhere, but nobody dared leave the line to look, for fear of  losing their spot in the queue. We stood obediently, leaning against the wall, hearing the music in the auditorium end and the crowd noises roar up. The line was about to get longer.

When it was finally my turn to use the facilities, I nodded at the fella behind me, as if to assure him I’d be quick, which I can only assume he misconstrued as inappropriate, making me a weirdo. Awkward.

Entering the tiny washroom, I quickly scanned the space to confirm there was toilet paper, soap and paper towels. 

Life lesson: always know before you go. And then, I prepared to do the thing I came in here to do, quickly, because one can only imagine what the fella in line is thinking I’m up to behind the locked door.

Then it all went to crap – er, wrong. I attempted to dislodge my brand new leather belt that I bought to cinch my also-new stretch black pants. I went a size up in both because my body composition is subject to change without warning. 

Only now, the skinny metal stick that fits into the tiny adjustment hole was stuck. The stiff leather wouldn’t budge. I was seriously stuck. Panicked. 

A frantic wrestling-meets-tug-of-war scene ensued as my bladder let me know that we were mere seconds from a breach. I’m cursing, thrashing about in the lavatory, ever aware that, beyond the locked door, there is a lineup of people no doubt questioning what offences are occurring in there. Weirdo.

What’s a girl to do? If you’ve ever had to shimmy out of shapewear or a wet one-piece bathing suit, you have a visual. Like a circus contortionist, I twisted myself free to the relief of my bladder. Sigh, quietly, of course. Weirdo. 

Ah, but now, how do I pull this all back up? Hopping about like I’m performing an interpretive dance gone terribly wrong, I finally squeeze back into what can only be described as a dishevelled look. Washing my hands before the mirror told the whole story.

I opened the door, holding it as I nodded to the fella waiting his turn, who looked uncertain about entering the loo after the commotion he’d just heard. 

Another notch in my belt has a whole new meaning now. 

Here’s to stretch pants.