My husband and I just returned from a wonderfully warm week in the Florida Keys.
But this post isn’t about the white sandy beaches, the aqua water, the pink flamingos or the green lizard that peed on my suntan lotion. This post is about the dark and dirty shenanigans that went down in the airport.
Between flights, I had to use the airport restroom because our first flight attendant had poured Coke products down my throat for two hours. So I entered the bathroom, which smelled like compost made of bovine and elephant turds. After I straddled the stained seat like a contortionist and carefully flushed with my foot, I exited the stall to thoroughly scrub my hands with scorching hot water and twelve dollops of pink soap that reminded me of the aroma in my grandmother’s old Lincoln. You know, the combination of old lady musk and daffodils. Or something.
I heard another toilet flush. A stall door opened, and a lady exited. She completely bypassed the sink and walked right out into the world. She walked right out into the freaking world with urine, dook or possibly tampon riddled digits!! (Digits is a fancy word for fingers, y’all).
I literally shuddered at the thought of how many people regularly don’t wash their hands, but after doing a whole Jimmy Fallon “EW” skit about it in my mind, I moved on with my life.
I SAW THE SAME LADY THROWING LETTUCE ON A TWELVE INCH SUB.
AT THE SAME RESTAURANT WHERE I WAS PLACING AN ORDER.
WHICH WOULD REQUIRE LETTUCE.
Hold up, wait a minute, don’t go there, ‘cause I ain’t with it.
When I finally reached the counter, vomit threatening to escape my lips, I very quietly spoke to the cashier.
“Excuse me? A few moments ago, I saw that lady over there leave the bathroom without washing her hands.”
“Who? Trisha?” she asked.
“That lady,” I slowly pointed to her, as if I were pointing to a spider carrying three trillion spider babies on its back.
“Yeah, Trisha. I’ll talk to her again.”
Wait, did I- did I- did- did- did I just hear that correctly?
AGAIN? AGAIN? What in the name of Softsoap do you mean AGAIN?
Really, Trisha? AGAIN?
I honestly didn’t know what to make of the situation. Sure, Trisha may have marched straight to the sub shop and washed her hands there instead of in the bathroom, but still! I could not remove the sounds and sights of the toilet flushing, the stall opening and her walking right passed the sink as if it wasn’t even there.
“Are you ready to order?” the cashier asked, as if it was no big deal that we’d just discussed Trisha’s hygiene fail.
“Nevermind, “ I shook my head. “You know, I’ll just go to Panera Bread.”
“Why?” she shrugged.
“Because I can’t eat anything that Toilet Trisha is making. Good day.”
Will I ever be able to eat at a restaurant again? Will the image of Toilet Trisha assembling sandwiches ever vacate my mind? Will I ever be the same?
I don't even know, you guys. I just don't even know.Image Credit George Hodan