While at an outdoor event I had to go to the bathroom and the only option was a porta potty. My husband and I stepped up to a set of four, standing alone and empty. My marital fully functioning eyes opened the door for me as I removed my folding chair that you wear as a backpack. I asked him to check out the inside of the only-when-you’re-desperate facility and let me know if it was bad. i have no doubt that you know what I mean by “bad”.
He replied, “It’s good” and so I entered and assumed the position: the hover. Before I began to “relax”, I reached for the toilet paper to procure some squares but I couldn’t find the end of the roll. In my effort to locate the starting piece, I leaned even further, slipped a bit, and the back of my thigh made contact with the toilet. Sh*t. Not the plan, by the way.
In my full bladder impatience and irritation at the toilet paper, a revelation: the lid of the toilet was down.
Let’s review, shall we?
“Hon, how’s it look in there?”
“It’s good.”
No mention of a closed lid. I can’t see if the lid is down. If I had hovered and got right down to business, I’d have been wearing my business.
Twenty-five years of telling him to put the seat down and this is how it ironically ends. We had a good run. Just like the pee almost did on my legs.
