Traumatization.

For the very first time in my life today, I ran (literally) out of the bathroom without washing my hands.

It all started out innocently enough. I was in a stall in the bathroom at work, happily slathering lotion on my preggo belly, when I heard a sound not unlike a stampeding rhinoceros explode into the restroom and lock itself into the stall next to me. And that, my friends, is the point at which VERY BAD THINGS transpired next door. All of a sudden, my fight-or-flight response kicked in, and I realized I could NOT stick around for the grand finale. I yanked up my pants mid-slather and bolted outta there faster than you can say irritable bowels!

Due to the volume and timbre of the grunting and wheezing, I immediately knew PRECISELY who I was up against. And you don’t wanna mess with that beast. She is a notorious repeat restroom offender, a most dreaded lavatory foe. She is large and in charge. And trust me, my friends, you don’t want to be within a country mile of her when she gets going. We all have signals for each other to detour our fellow comrades when she’s been spotted in the area. I’m not even joking.

This time, however, I got caught unawares. There was nobody to warn me, I was all alone. And she came barreling through like a freight train. There was simply not enough time to evacuate!

I think I might be all right, in time. With each passing day, you begin to forget. And then—only then—there might come some glimmer of hope that I can move forward with my life and put such horrors behind me.

I did manage to find my way to the kitchen in my harried state and wash up there. It was too late, however. I’m afraid the damage is done.

Although I am badly shaken, I must continue on. After all, there is work to be done. So I shall sally forth and attempt to sing a happy song. As soon as I can remember one.

Mommy....