Gold Medal Glitches-Part I

It seemed like a good idea at the time. Of course, so did platform shoes.

The girls in my gym class took turns attempting to mount the balance beam in a Chinese split, a form of torture perfected in the Far East many years ago to punish women for attempting outlandish and dangerous feats like voting, or cooking meals that didn’t involve rice.

Nobody made it. Too timid, I thought, gauging the distance and velocity ratio with as much accuracy as I now figure my daily calorie intake; an amazing display of mental dexterity that explains why I wear tent dresses and stretchy pants today.

Two hops and a judicious lack of common sense later, my priorities underwent a drastic change as I reconsidered my strategy and position, both of which suddenly seemed to have tiny flaws I overlooked in my original calculations.

Hanging upside down from a balance beam isn’t much different from hanging upside down from the roof of a cave, except the bat hanging in the cave probably doesn’t have much to fear in the way of peer pressure. As my personal dignity trickled out my ear, and just before I hit the floor, I gave some thought to trying to figure out how to dismount gracefully without introducing wandering dust bunnies into my hairdo.

That was the moment when I realized that the closest I would come to Olympic gold would be to hang a Wheaties box on a ribbon around my neck.

Luckily the whole thing took place before the onset of teeming hordes of paparazzi or Funniest Home Videos. But the whole memory stirs my competitive spirit and inspires me to excel. Perhaps tonight I’ll try and find my toes.

I’ll need a large pile of safety mats, six rolls of gauze bandages, and a map.

It's a Wash

Moving from last week’s baby poop extravaganza up the time line to indoor plumbing, we come to public potties, where I also have issues. Now you can tell if you ever drop by the house that I have no tendencies toward a cleanliness fetish of any kind, so that’s not the problem. I don’t panic over germ infestations unless they present themselves in the form of a creature that is hopping, flying, crawling, buzzing, or of course rubbing its little hands together menacingly in my direction.

But let's move back down the pipes to the potties. My problem is the trend toward installing automatically flushing toilets in public restrooms. I’m not sure what sort of fiendish mind conceived of such a device. Obviously the same mind that thought of squirt cheese or miniature cookies that come in tiny packages labeled 100 calories each. Everybody knows it takes a quart-sized baggie of cookies to equal 100 calories, particularly if chocolate is involved.

Now when it comes to plumbing, it’s not that I don’t appreciate the advanced technology that takes away the need for manual flushing, but I can’t seem to operate the things. When I open the stall door to enter, they inevitably begin their erratic tidy bowl dance, complete with crashing tidal waves and whirlpools. Not having thought to bring along a change of clothes, I favor an approach most often used by a goal-oriented runner approaching a closely guarded second base at Yankee Stadium. I slide in low and hope I don’t need laundry detail.

Next, I settle onto the nest like a laying hen, my pocketbook clutched tightly in my lap. I realize that as a good citizen and a proponent of clean living I should hang my pocketbook daintily on the hook provided, but I don’t do that because a) I'll generally forget it when I leave, b) I intend to reapply my lipstick, Blushing Berry, available for $7.98 at Wal-Mart, while seated, and c) I never remember the hook until the optimal time to arrange for its use has passed. This immediately leads to a logistics dilemma requiring remarkable dexterity in reaching the necessary accesories. I lean forward to place my purse on the floor, in spite of agitated e-mail circulations that implore me to choose a better option.

Immediately with a roar and the crash of waves of water, the auto-flush option jumps enthusiastically into service, cleaning more surface area than I find comfortable. I involuntarily leap to attention, realizing too late that quick attention should be accompanied by returning all possible garments to the upright position. My knees are bound together by nylon and elastic lace and a sizable amount of yardage in the form of stretchy pants as I hop awkwardly in an attempt to avoid the purse obstacle situated on the floor like a hungry mouse trap ready to snap to work given the slightest provocation.

I bend to remedy the fabric situation which sets off a renewed frenzy of water fun. By this time, bystanders are bending to peer under the door to see if distress requiring the jaws life of is taking place in Stall Number 1. After repositioning all my garments to their accustomed areas of coverage, retrieving my purse, which once again sets off a tirade of flushing action, I hold my head high and exit the stall.

Now to wash my hands. Which I would do if I could figure out how to activate the automatic faucets long enough to reach the soap. I wet my hands and wipe them off on my pants. I'm not about to attempt the automatic dryer.