I was born in Denver. We lived here until I was 8 and although I don't have a ton of memories during that time, Denver was always the place I wanted to come back to.
Six years ago I opted to take a job that had me leaving Oklahoma and moving to Colorado. And I totally lucked out because my Godmother lived in the city that I had to move to...which meant that I could live with her for a month or two until I found a place that I could move into. She was so very cool about it - and insisted that I not pay her rent. She rocks.
The only thing is, as much as she and I were around each other (her daughter is around my age) until we moved away when I was a kid, I didn't really KNOW her. Sure, I'd spent some time around her from age 7 on, but it was pretty limited and all I could really remember was how she didn't seem to have as many hangups as my parents did. She had a papazan chair that we could sit and spin in and our eye didn't even get poked out - which is what my mom was constantly worried about. Oh, and that she let us eat Apple Jacks if we wanted to. And of course, given my cereal upbringing, I took advantage of this whenever I could. Again, she rocks.
Anyway, the day I drove into Colorado, after driving about 12 hours, I was excited to meet her and her boyfriend. After I moved in all my crap, they opted to take me out to eat. Because I was trying to be accommodating, when they asked if I'd like Indian food, I replied with an enthusiastic "yes!" Sure I had never tried it before, but hey, I officially lived in Colorado and was up for anything! They piled me into the back of their SUV and started driving me around the city - swerving to show me landmarks that she hoped I would remember from being a kid.
Oh, did I forget to tell you that I am a bad backseat passenger? As in, I get very sick to my stomach? Alrighty then.
So we arrived at the Indian restaurant and that's when I realized that I'm not a fan of curry...not the way it tastes, and not the way it smells. And curry clearly is not a fan of me.
Getting sick halfway into dinner, I opted to go to the bathroom. And I don't know if it was the altitude, my fatigue, the fact that I had just ingested what tasted like a smelly ball of fire, or I was still fighting nausea from the city tour, but I walked into the wrong bathroom.
Sure, the urinals should've been my first clue, but also the men clearing their throats while peeing. Which is VERY disgusting and you should never ever ever do it thankyouverymuch. This didn't register until I was done and I had to hide out until there were no more people in the restroom.
It was a horrible experience and I think that everyone in the restaurant noticed that I walked out of the men's restroom - including our waiter and my Godmother and her boyfriend. I had been in there for a long time (to wait out the guys) and walked out of the wrong restroom. Quite the first impression.
The problem is that now I'm kind of overly sensitive to this happening again. So I'll literally pause outside of the restrooms at restaurants double checking my restroom choice. Sometimes I have to do some translation when at funky restaurants that think they're being funny or clever. I've learned that while at the Outback, sheilas mean "Anne, pick this one!" Sometimes the choices are super classy - one place had a picture of a taco on the door and a hot dog on the other one.
At any rate, our office has a cleaning guy who will clean our bathrooms and then leave the toilet seats up.
And even though I go to the same restroom each day- the same stall even - I still freeze when I walk in and see the seat up. Because then I'm one curry/fireball away from public humiliation. Which, actually come to think of it, isn't all that different than any other experience at my office.
20 hours ago