A Saturday Night in November

I should have known better when neither stall was what should have been the way it usually is.

Business was conducted, I washed my hands, and took my leave.

In retrospect, there was a moment when a female voice seemed startled near me, but there was so much ambient noise that I dismissed it while focusing on another task.

As I stepped out back into the hallway I realized my mistake as the other door was clearly labeled. A quick glance over my shoulder confirmed my error, but as the first two letters were generally obscured and the final three were clear and distinct I tried to feel better. I also made a point of picking up the pace before anyone saw me. As fate would have it I made it back to my cohort unscathed and untainted by accusation and the stigma and trauma of having been nabbed in my inadvertent misdeed. The place was pretty busy and this was a pleasant surprise. For the record I had not yet finished my single glass, albeit a big glass mind you, of malted beverage.

My mind drifted back to my first year of college, when a quiz was given to girls to see how well they knew - and therefore how much time they were spending in - my guys only dorm. One question of note was, "How many stalls do you pass before you come to one with a seat?"

There had been exactly zero urinals in the restroom I had chosen.

For a few moments I wondered if I was about to get tossed from the establishment, but it was clear that my initial assessment of having gone through unscathed was true.

I slurped my large glass of malted beverage a bit quicker though, on principle.

I waited for the 50-50 drawing and went back to only sipping my large glass of malted beverage and stared at the best legs I had ever seen in Seattle some more.

Since confession is goof for the soul I came clean to my bud. "Dude, I just used the wrong bathroom," I said.

He laughed as hard as you might imagine. Plus, he heeded to know that there was a chance I might get tossed. Getting tossed would have made a better story in some ways, or at least a better Facebook status update.

Later, upon completion of said large glass of malt beverage I made a second and much less traumatic trip down the same hallway.

I am uncertain, but leaning one way towards, about whether I feel better about having been sober or not during this escapade.