We ate some Panda Express and bypassed the concession stand because we are both being "good" right now with our diets. Good is boring and I was craving popcorn and candy. I sipped my bottle of water with great resentment.
Before the movie even started I needed to empty my bladder. Public restrooms are one of my least favorite places in the world. I literally have dreams about needing to go really bad and finding nothing but grosser than gross toilets. So I guess you should call them nightmares. The only public bathroom I do not detest is the one at Nordstroms. It smells nice and clean and has couches where you can sit and have buyers remorse.
Theater bathrooms are their own beasts. Just the sheer volume of toilet stalls all in a row is overwhelming. But not as overwhelming as the always unique smell. How do I put this delicately? It is the smell of hours of gynecological appointments gone awry. Just sayin'. I have a preference of going in stall where I have not seen the previous client. I do not want to know whose airspace I am getting half naked in.
So after I have picked a stall that has been empty for at least a few minutes and has not tell tale signs of what previously went on, it is time to find some place to put the purse. Hopefully there is a hook. The floor is not an option, for obvious bacterial factors. If I have to I will hold it on my lap, which is always comfortable.
Now if anyone would like to teach me how to put a toilet seat cover on and then turn around and sit down at the speed of light BEFORE it falls in the toilet, I am all ears. I fail at this miserably. I don't know if I am slow or I am not getting the correct ratio of toilet cover torn off to create that necessary toilet cover to toilet seat ratio. I guess I need to take a class.
Then there is washing up which can be as gross as the toilet stall itself. There are counters that are covered in water, papertowels, hair and some kids dirty butt. The new motion censored faucets and soap dispensers seem like a good solution to the spread of disease, except for one problem. Apparently I have cold, dead, lifeless hands that can't be recognized by anything but a NASA satellite perhaps. There is nothing stranger than moving my hands up and down under a faucet while praying for water, while others come and go finishing the task successfully.
I feel like saying, "Wait can you hold your hands under there for a second while I wash mine? Thanks."
Paper towels are also being replaced by hand dryers. So after 20 minuntes and a line of dripping hands behind you, your hands will be dry, paper free. So I usually walk out of the bathroom experience with wet hands and hope I don't run into anyone that is a hand shaker.
"Oh sorry, I just went to the bathroom and my hands are wet. No, that's not pee."
But this is what I endure for a couple of hours of entertainment. And at the end of that two hours, my bladder usually makes me endure it again.
And just for informational purposes, on Friday we saw "The Last Song." If you can stand Miley Cyrus' "I just smelled a skunk" face, it is a good movie. I liked the story line and got the hot men's beach volleyball scene I have been craving since Top Gun.