not here anymore!
If you're looking for me here, I'll tell you why you won't find me.
Because I'm over here now.
Ciao.
the second-place piece
I have been given an award—a blog award! If you know me at all, you know that I love awards. I also love grand prize winner awards. As in, second place isn’t good enough if I know that I deserve first place. Do we have to relive A.C.E. convention senior year?
For those who don’t know what this convention is, it’s basically a mid-western states regional competition for private schools who use A.C.E. curriculum. It includes every variation of competition from vocal and instrumental music to chess tournaments to spelling to track and field to painting, sewing, woodworking…you name it. All of this competition was crammed into one week and so it was very important to keep a good schedule of what was happening where and when all across NIU’s campus.
Being a pianist, I had always competed in the piano solo category. My first year (7th grade), I got fourth place. The next year I got third, then second place and then, my junior year (the math is right; I skipped 8th grade), I got a command performance (a request from the judges to play my piece again for the morning rally, a huge honor) and first place. It was my moment of glory. Every year I had worked my butt off, moving up the pole of success and had finally achieved The Best. I glowed from this achievement. It was so great. It was indescribable really.
For those who don’t know what this convention is, it’s basically a mid-western states regional competition for private schools who use A.C.E. curriculum. It includes every variation of competition from vocal and instrumental music to chess tournaments to spelling to track and field to painting, sewing, woodworking…you name it. All of this competition was crammed into one week and so it was very important to keep a good schedule of what was happening where and when all across NIU’s campus.
Being a pianist, I had always competed in the piano solo category. My first year (7th grade), I got fourth place. The next year I got third, then second place and then, my junior year (the math is right; I skipped 8th grade), I got a command performance (a request from the judges to play my piece again for the morning rally, a huge honor) and first place. It was my moment of glory. Every year I had worked my butt off, moving up the pole of success and had finally achieved The Best. I glowed from this achievement. It was so great. It was indescribable really.
My senior year, my piano teacher challenged me and I took on my most difficult piece. I spent weeks—months, really—learning it, adding musical inflections, blending crescendo dynamics, and working it into muscle memory. Before competition, I would practice with my eyes closed to make sure my fingers had the piece memorized. I also practiced on an electronic keyboard that was turned off; because my brain was so in tune with my fingers, I could hear in my brain when my fingers messed up. I was coming back to compete as last year’s champion. I wanted this so badly.
Because this was an annual competition, I had gotten to know other schools pretty good over the years. There were things everyone figured out along the way of what not to miss: Beka’s vocal solo, Dayspring’s large and small ensembles, Lighthouse’s female quartet, Dayspring’s male vocal soloist, and, yes, my piano solo.
My nerves tightened as my time drew near. I never listened to other piano solos until I had performed mine (simplistic rule to staying positive and focused) so I waited in the hallway until the performance before me was finished. My friends and family were there and crowded into the ballroom when the doors opened for the next performance. My stomach quivered. It was always easier for me to play in front of judges than to play in front of people I knew. I stood in the back of the ballroom. The judges finished tallying up the previous performance and handed in their final scores. They picked up their next stacks of papers—my piece.
“Quiet please. Emily Miller, we’re ready.”
I inhaled, exhaled, and then calmly walked up the aisle, stood by the piano, smiled at the three judges and said, “Good afternoon. My name is Emily Miller and I am from Pathway Christian School. I will be performing a piano solo today titled 'Come, Christians, Join to Sing', a traditional Spanish melody arranged by Michael Fischer.”
I slid onto the piano bench, adjusted it for proper distance from the keys, lowered the music rack and slid it back on the track, glanced at the piano strings lined up and interlaced in front of me, positioned my hands on the keys, took another deep breath and, on the exhale, I began to play.
Everything disappeared. There were no judges. There was no audience. There was nothing but me and the keys and the sound of the music pouring out of the belly of the piano. I must have been breathing, but I didn’t think about it. This was my time. This was my song. This was my final year. This was it.
Because this was an annual competition, I had gotten to know other schools pretty good over the years. There were things everyone figured out along the way of what not to miss: Beka’s vocal solo, Dayspring’s large and small ensembles, Lighthouse’s female quartet, Dayspring’s male vocal soloist, and, yes, my piano solo.
My nerves tightened as my time drew near. I never listened to other piano solos until I had performed mine (simplistic rule to staying positive and focused) so I waited in the hallway until the performance before me was finished. My friends and family were there and crowded into the ballroom when the doors opened for the next performance. My stomach quivered. It was always easier for me to play in front of judges than to play in front of people I knew. I stood in the back of the ballroom. The judges finished tallying up the previous performance and handed in their final scores. They picked up their next stacks of papers—my piece.
“Quiet please. Emily Miller, we’re ready.”
I inhaled, exhaled, and then calmly walked up the aisle, stood by the piano, smiled at the three judges and said, “Good afternoon. My name is Emily Miller and I am from Pathway Christian School. I will be performing a piano solo today titled 'Come, Christians, Join to Sing', a traditional Spanish melody arranged by Michael Fischer.”
I slid onto the piano bench, adjusted it for proper distance from the keys, lowered the music rack and slid it back on the track, glanced at the piano strings lined up and interlaced in front of me, positioned my hands on the keys, took another deep breath and, on the exhale, I began to play.
Everything disappeared. There were no judges. There was no audience. There was nothing but me and the keys and the sound of the music pouring out of the belly of the piano. I must have been breathing, but I didn’t think about it. This was my time. This was my song. This was my final year. This was it.
Four minutes and 50-some seconds later, my hands came to rest again, wrists strong, fingers curved, shoulders bowed forward. As I inhaled, I released the keys, sat up tall, stood and bowed my head towards the judges before walking back down the aisle.
I was the first into the hallway and behind me came my school, my friends, and my family. Everyone poured their congratulations on me, telling me it was perfect; it was the best they’d ever heard me play. There were hugs all around, a few tears, and overall, an immense feeling of accomplishment. I had done it. I had done my very best and it was damn good.
I didn’t expect to get a command performance in rally since I had gotten one the year before. As it happened, I got a command performance for my piano duet with my friend Lindsay (we rocked that!) which further confirmed that I wouldn’t have one for my solo. So even when, two mornings later, there was another female pianist performing a solo in rally, I wasn’t worried. I figured they had asked her to play since they had already asked me to perform the piano duet. If there was one thing I had learned from years of piano lessons and competitions, it was how to talk technicality and fundamentals and I knew her piece was technically lacking and not as advanced as mine. I wasn’t worried.
Friday was awards day. It started early and went until all the awards were handed out, which was quite a bit longer than any Oscars show (and we didn’t even give speeches). There were some other awards that I was called up for and won, but nothing mattered to me until we got to the Instrumental Music category: Female Piano Solo. My name was up on the screen along with 5 others. We waited on Stage Left as the names were called one by one starting in 6th place.
I was confident until it came to third place. I knew I had made it into the top three. But that other girl—the one who had played earlier in rally—was still standing beside me. I was confused. She hadn’t been that good. The fourth and fifth place winners had both been better than her. I couldn’t figure out how the scales had tilted so that she would get third place. They called the next name, the third place winner. It wasn’t me. And it wasn’t her. Now my confusion turned back into confidence because I knew that if it was between me and this girl for first place, I was hands-down the winner.
“In second place, from Path…”
That was all I heard. It was all I needed to hear. There was look of utter shock on the faces of everyone from my school. I had lost. I had performed the best piano solo of my career and had lost to someone who played a piece that I had played for fun 4 years ago.
I tried to keep my head up as I walked up the stairs to accept my ribbon. I vaguely remember shaking hands with someone. I eyed the opposite side of the stage and made it my goal to just make it to those stairs. Get the frick off this stage. My feet were lead at the same time that my body felt like a ghost. I was stuck and floating all at once.
As I fumbled down the steps, the guest speaker for the convention came up to take my hand and help me. He had come to my performance. He knew. He was also a pianist and an accomplished one at that. I had purchased one of his music books of original pieces as well as his CD. The look in his eyes mirrored the anguish in mine. He simply said, “I’m so sorry.” and let go of my hand as he sat back down and I ghosted back to my seat.
I remember very little from then on. I crawled over laps to get to my chair and people touched my shoulder or my knee and said kind things, but I didn’t hear them. I swallowed back vomit. I couldn’t see; the tears had finally built into too much of a pool in my eyes and were sliding down my cheeks like silent little waterfalls. Someone—a teacher—handed me a tissue.
I felt void.
After the awards ceremony, I must have packed my bags; one of the guys carried it to the bus for me. We must have taken an all-school photo because I have a print somewhere in an old scrapbook, but I don’t remember smiling for it. We must have driven back to Iowa, but I don’t know how long it took. My mom must have picked me up at school and gotten the story from someone else because I don’t remember telling her what happened. I must have gone home and crawled into bed because the only thing I remember is staring at my bedroom ceiling, shivering under the blankets.
I slept and cried emotionally-unprocessed tears that weekend. And though my friends were one hundred percent supportive, walking into school on Monday morning took every ounce of strength in me. It had been a devastating blow and it had rocked me to the core.
I had worked 8 years to get to this place. I would have been happy to lose to someone more talented than me. I would have considered it an honor, in fact, to fall in their shadow. But I couldn’t accept the fact that I had lost to someone who was 4 years my junior in technicality, who hadn’t memorized her piece and had used sheet music, and whose mother, I later found out, was one of the judges.
Life isn’t fair. That week was probably one of the first times I realized that. Yes, I had had my share of heartbreak and other unfortunate situations, but I hadn’t invested my life into them. I was known as a pianist. I started playing Pomp and Circumstance for our high school graduations when I was twelve. I later both sang and wrote songs for graduations. For my sixteenth birthday, my parents had purchased an hour of recording time for me in the music hall at the University of Iowa. Aside from being a volleyball setter (which was a seasonal sport), piano was who I was and where I invested my time and energy.
I continued to play piano, though that was my final competition. Shortly after that loss, I performed my senior recital, where my second-place piece was on the repertoire. It was hard to play it. It was hard to feel, or even pretend to feel, the emotion that I had originally put into it when I now felt such detachment from it.
In fact, I had detached myself so far from that piece, from that day, from that second-place ribbon, that, until just a few weeks ago on my way home from a dinner date with Kevin, I hadn’t talked about it. When I started telling Kevin about it in the car, it unleashed a beast in me and I realized how deeply I had bottled up that experience and how sad and angry it still makes me. I’m relearning what it means to live through unfair circumstances. I'm relearning how to mourn a loss, even one as immature as a piano award.
I wasn't lying when I started typing out this high school story; I really did win a blog award. But when I started typing this story way up there on the page, I was joking around and acting silly. I didn't expect to dive into this place, into this real, honest, dark, hidden place that still haunts me. The blog award came with stipulations; I had to write 15 things about me. I guess I failed since my "15 facts" turned into 1 tough story that, even now, has me shedding a few more tears.
This time around though, my tears are real. I can feel the sadness now. I can feel the heartbreak and the pain and the shame and the disappointment. I can feel the bitterness and the anger and the disconnect. I took a break a few paragraphs ago to blow my nose and go out to the garage, where I dug around in several boxes until I pulled out my old piano music. I found my second-place piece. I look at all the black notes on the pages now and I'm starting to feel again. It hurts to feel, but hurt is better than void.
So me and my second-place piece; we're just sitting here having a soulful stare-down. Someday soon I'm going to put my fingers to the keys and me and this piece, we're going to make it real again.
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puppy love
I've never been fond of dogs. I dry heave when people kiss their dogs; this includes making out. (Yes, I have seen this before and have had to leave the room; it's very uncomfortable for me.) I find dogs generally purposeless except to dress up or go for runs. All of the other stuff, the barking, the pooping (and scooping), the hair--oh, the hair, the smell, all of these things about dogs annoy me.
Perhaps I'm my father's daughter more than I knew. I grew up with my dad drilling into us that animals are not for company, they are for doing jobs on the farm. Animals of every species were never allowed in the house, with the exception of several fish over the years. The cats were for killing mice in the barn. (I dressed them up though when I was little enough to still like them.) Dogs were for herding the cattle. Chickens were for laying eggs and eating (both the chickens and the eggs). Cows were for selling and/or butchering. Pigs were for selling and/or butchering. Rabbits were for selling. And the occasional pony was really for no purpose except to eat grass and get fat. (Dad grew up with his grandpa being a huge horseman so maybe that's why we were allowed a pony. I think we had grand schemes as children of saddling up the pony and galloping through the fields like Indian warriors, but our ponies never galloped. They trodded and plodded and generally hated the annoyance of having to actually carry someone on their back.)
So I think my general outlook at animals is much like my father. The biggest difference though is that if I had a dog, I would dress it up. My dad would think I would be insane. (I also desperately want a teacup pig and he laughs and laughs at me, saying, "I'll get a teacup pig for you. In a few weeks when the sows are farrowing, there will be a teacup pig for you." I don't think he understands that teacup pigs never actually get big. That's the point.)
Kevin and I have long agreed that we won't have a dog. Even if we have children someday and they beg and beg and promise the dog would be their responsibility, we won't get a dog.
Then we were at my parent's house last night and Dad brought the four little week-old puppies into the entryway in a cardboard box for us to see. It was like love at first sight. They were the ittiest, bittiest little things I've ever seen and they just grunted and slept and whined. I picked up a little black one with the start of wavy hair like her mama and she just settled right in and slept while I held her. She had the tiniest little nails and squished up nose. She was the cutest thing I've ever seen. If I could bottle her up and make her stay that size, I would never let her leave my side.
Now I must add two extraordinary things that happened last night, aside from me falling in love with a puppy. Not only did dad bring the puppies into the house, albeit only one foot from the front door, but he let Sam, the mama dog, into the entryway too while we all oogled over her puppies and told her what a good job she did. This is significant because, as stated before, my dad never lets animals into the house. In fact, they're not even allowed on the porch and will get a whooping if they ever entertain the notion of sitting there. I was both confused and surprised by my dad's sudden softening over letting the dog sit inside the door.
The second extraordinary thing that happened was that my littlest niece, Kylie, reached over to carefully pet Sam. Kylie has always been terrified of animals. From a distance, she will watch them, but she is a skilled climber into anyone's arms if an animal starts to come closer than 500 yards. (That might be part of the reason why there are no animals allowed on the porch. It became the "safe place" for the kids to play if they wanted to be outside.) So not only did she hold the puppies, I saw her reach over and pet Sam and I thought to myself, "Wow, two miracles in one night! Too much!"
During the night, I dreamt that I bought that little black puppy at Buckle, where I've never shopped, along with a pair of aqua high heels and as I walked out of the store, I panicked because there was a no-return policy on the puppy and I suddenly realized that Kevin and I have to move since I bought the puppy and we aren't allowed to have animals in our condo. I guess it's a good thing because I'd end up spending more money on dog clothes than I do on my own wardrobe.
But, gosh darn it, if she isn't the cutest thing I've ever seen...and I want to keep her.
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a quarter of a century
Becoming 25 was a big deal to me. With it comes the knowledge that I've lived over 1/4 of my life now. I have, at the very most and not even likely, only 3/4 left. That's a lot of pressure. I used to love my birthday, but now I just get nervous because I hate the attention that comes with it. (No lie: I got huge stomach cramps last night that made me actually sick because I was so nervous about going out for dinner knowing that Kevin had something planned that he wouldn't tell me about. I had to take my muscle relaxant prescription and lay down for a while before I could actually think again. That's how nervous I get about stuff like this.)
This past week has been somewhat hellish at work. We were in the survey process of JCAHO and it was the most exhausted I've been in a while. On top of that, I was still balancing photography and teaching at the gym. I hardly thought about my birthday due to my single-focus at work. I knew it would be this way which is why I purposely kept this weekend completely clean on the calendar. I needed rejuvenation more than anything else.
Kevin, however, loves to celebrate my birthday. He hates celebrating his, but mine is a different story. Saturday morning started off with Kevin practically giddy about getting me to open my gifts. He grabbed the camera to document every step.
Pardon the sleepy eyes. I had just woken up and it obviously shows.
Gifts from my sister, Carla (and pretend sister, Jana). I failed to take a picture of the necklace, but it's my favorite thing ever! I will show you sometime.
My mother dropped off a tulip plant at work on Thursday and they are now in full bloom by the window. I love them freakishly much. Aren't they beautiful?
The rest of the day progressed quite nicely. I got about 60 messages from facebook with people commenting on my wall wishing me all kinds of birthday miracles and my phone kept ringing off the hook with family members calling. My favorite part of the day, however, was the hour that I silenced all media outlets and had the most wonderful, relaxing massage (thanks, Joanne & Jim!). It was heavenly and it went far too fast. (Do massage therapists really keep track of the time because, I swear, it seems like only 15 minutes has passed when they announce that it's over.)
In the evening, we went out for dinner. Kevin wouldn't tell me where we were going and he was also abnormally busy on his cell phone so I knew something was up. (This was the time that my stomach started knotting up and I felt sick.) I was particularly irritable on the way to the restaurant because I don't do well with surprises. I actually hate them. I snuck a peek at Kevin's cell phone and saw he had been talking to my BFF, Sara, so I figured out quickly that there were people meeting us at the restaurant. Though, in the end, it was a wonderful time, by the time we got there my stomach was so worked up that I felt sick most of the night. I was also slightly cranky, not because I wasn't having fun, but I was just so worked up about the surprise aspect that I couldn't focus.
It's a tricky one to explain because I am truly thankful and blessed to have a husband who cares so much about me that he would plan special dinners in my honor with the people closest to me. It is not without much stomach cramping on my part though to walk into something unknown and then I end up feeling unnerved most of the time because I never had a chance to mentally prepare even when the people surrounding me are my closest friends. Can I be diagnosed?
In the end of the day, I had to admit that it was a great birthday. It was fun, relaxing, and I was surrounded by people who love me. What more could I ask for? Just maybe no more surprises next time...
Cheers to another quarter of a century of good life. I wonder what will happen in the next 25 years?
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i'm no racehorse...
>> Thursday, February 24, 2011 –
Emily,
photography,
running
I've always wished I was a natural runner; someone who actually enjoys running and can run with ease. I read an article once in Runner’s magazine about two women who are both marathoners and continued training during their pregnancies with these weird treadmill setups where they were basically cushioned in so their stomachs wouldn’t bounce. They’d run easier, shorter runs, logging only, oh, maybe 15 miles a day. Three weeks after birth they were outside on the trails again, getting ready for their next marathon. (Talk about not even having baby weight to lose!)
Then there’s me: I’m doing awesome if I can run 2 miles. (And by “run” I really mean “plod” or “trudge”. I’m not a graceful, beautiful, long-legged, deep-striding runner!) Two summers ago I worked my way up to 5 miles, which was an enormous feat of accomplishment for me. At that point, my easy days were 2.5 miles. In contrast, two nights ago at the gym, I barely eeked out a mile. The second the meter changed from 0.99 to 1.00 miles, I pulled the emergency cord and the treadmill came to a screeching halt so quickly that I fell into the front of it.
Emily’s Guide to a Bearable Run:
- Run outside; never on a treadmill. Treadmills will rip your knees apart faster than King Kong, plus they are super, uber boring because you can’t use tips 4 and 5. If you must use a treadmill, cover up the meter or else you’ll be checking it every 5 seconds to see if you’re done yet because it’s just that bad.
- Run in the early morning, if possible. You’ll feel great the whole day and, in the summer, it’s the only time you won’t get heat stroke.
- Make up stupid games like, “If I make it to that next electric pole, I can stop running. … Haha, just kidding, keep running, fool!” or my favorite made-up game, Decorate This House. I imagine the layout of houses I pass and then imaginarily paint them and buy furniture and arrange everything inside. The next time I pass it, I rearrange the previous arrangement. Do you know how many houses in our neighborhood have been mentally decorated by me…multiple times?
- Use landmarks as goals and sometimes you’ll get lucky enough to get a break. For example, there’s a place in my longer route where I have to cross a busy road so sometimes I’ll tell myself that if I can just make it to that spot, there’s a chance I’ll get to pause while I wait for traffic. Most often, my wish comes true.
- Look for spots to photograph later. Just this past Sunday, I went for a run and passed an awesome tree/bush that was reflecting beautifully in the melting pool of snow that had surrounded it. After I got back from my run, I grabbed my camera and went out and snagged some shots. I have also found a place where sometime, with a summer newborn, I would love to photograph in this weedy, forested patch of trees that will probably soon be bulldozed for housing.
- Track or log your runs. I use the Nike+ system so I have a little tracker in my shoe and the app on my iPod so a nice man will tell me how far I’ve gone, how fast I’m running, and a plethora of other tidbits. After my run, it uploads into my online Nike+ account and graphs everything for me. I can compare runs from last year or two days ago; I can set up coaching runs; I can train for events; etc.
- Have a Power Song. When you think you cannot run a second more, hit your Power Song and, guarantee, you’ll be able to make it at least 3 more minutes. Mine has been the same song for the past 2 years: Black Eyed Peas’ I Gotta Feeling. It still works for me.
- Run in populated areas. Not only is this safer, but it will, again, give your mind something to do. Look at the kids fishing in that pond. Look at the people sitting on the patio at the restaurant. Look at the couple on bikes. Look at the family with a baby tucked into a stroller. If you want to dice it up a bit, imagine what their lives are like; what their favorite food might be, how they treat their spouse or children; what their style is; what kind of jobs they have. You can make up whatever you want! It’s allowed because it’s running therapy.
- Listen to music with only one earbud. This is for swiveling purposes only. Since I run by myself, I need to be aware of my surroundings all the time. I can’t see what’s behind me so occasionally I’ll turn my head to the side to get a peripheral view, but mostly, I rely on my hearing. If I leave one earbud out, I can hear both my music as well as surrounding sounds. This has also helped me escape dogs a few times, which makes it mandatory in my running book. Plus, there’s nothing worse than having a biker (or another runner) pass you and you jump into defense mode because you didn’t hear them announce their presence. It’s embarrassing and unnecessary.
- Wear cute running clothes. Yes, it sounds stupid (but doesn’t all my advice?), but honestly, if I feel like I look good, I will run better. If I'm running frumpy, then I feel frumpy and not very energized at all.
- Wear spandex. I don’t care who you are or how you want to layer it, you will eternally thank me for not getting heat rash between your legs. If I ever wear regular running shorts now sans spandex, I use Body Glide on my legs. Rubs on like deodorant, but is a lifesaver against those damn blisters.
- Breathe properly. Lastly, my only chance, even with all of my games, music, spandex, and mileage trackers, of actually running is using my Pilates breathing which is a big inhale through the nose and exhale through the mouth. Once I learn to control my breathing, I can run much further because proper breathing helps me avoid those dreaded side pains that make me think I’m dying. Seriously. Sometimes I really think I’m dying. Wouldn’t that be awful to die doing something you didn’t really like to do in the first place? Like the time one of my coworkers was running and got hit by a car…I mean, she hated running and then she got hit by a car while doing it?! She’s totally fine, but I don’t know if she’s gone running since then. So…just breathe.
before spring there's february
>> Sunday, February 20, 2011 –
nature,
photography
Every birthday I can ever remember has mud in it. Not necessarily that I got muddy, but just that the colors outside are dull and monochromatic and everything is damp and musty and if I were to step off the sidewalk, I would get mud in my shoes--yes, in them, not just on them.
This is February. My birth must've been about the most exciting thing to happen to my parents that month because Lord knows there wasn't anything else too pretty to look at in Iowa around that time.
And so here I am, 25 years later and I'm stuck in a February-rut of dreariness. The snow is melting and it's almost time to start shedding layers, but not quite...so I hold out for March because surely March will bring some sunshine and color. Right?
saving the trees one awkward moment at a time
I am like a magnet for awkward bathroom moments. Seriously.
The irony is not lost on me that during services this morning at church the vocal team was talking backstage about funny bathroom stories. After that funny conversation, I went to the restroom and my ear monitor fell off of the cord and hit the toilet seat and then bounced to the floor. I kept thinking, "Thank you for not falling in the toilet! Thank you for not falling in the toilet!" How would've I gone in a explained that to everyone?! "Um, sorry guys, but my, um, ear monitor just fell in the toilet so I flushed it down because there's no way I'm reaching in there. Can you, um, order a new one, please?"
After church, I went out for lunch with some best lady friends. We had not planned out our travel arrangements very well so after lunch, Sara took Hanna and Chandler back to the church to get their cars and then Sara was going to meet me back at the mall to chat for a while. While I was waiting, I went into Target and used the restroom. It wasn't until I was completely, ahem, done that I realized there was no toilet paper in my stall. I mean, zilch. They had two dispensers, each with two spots for those giant rolls of paper, but every single one was down to the cardboard middle.
I panicked. Crap. What does one do in this situation?
So there were other people in the restroom and I finally got up the nerve to ask for help after looking under the walls to see feet in the stalls on either side of me. Ahem. "Um, could anyone..." Whoosh! Everyone else in the restroom instantaneously flushed their toilets and I was drowned out by the noise.
Dangitall.
Then I was left by myself in the Target bathroom to contemplate my next move. I knew Sara was coming back to meet me so I texted her and said, "Are you nearby? I am in the most awkward situation! I am stuck in the Target bathroom without toilet paper!" She texted back and said, "Give me five!"
Two minutes later a miraculous thing happened and another person came into the bathroom. Miracle of miracles, good pete, she went into the stall right next to me! I did a little throat clearing and said, "Um, is there anyone next to me?" Silence. Then finally, "I don't know who's talking, but I'm here." I said, "Um, sorry to bother you, but I don't have any toilet paper in this stall."
God bless her soul, she said, "Oh, don't you apologize about that! It could've happened to anyone! I always carry some napkins in my purse just in case I run into a sticky situation." And she unrolled some paper, tore it off, and handed it under the divider to me.
I thanked her profusely and then tried to quickly get out of there, but the second after I flushed my toilet and beelined to the sinks, she also came out and then we had a little, short, awkward conversation about how terrible it is to be stuck in the bathroom without toilet paper.
I couldn't get out of there fast enough! Target, clean up your bathrooms and please, for the love of every woman out there, fill up the toilet paper dispensers!!
See other awkward bathroom stories:
when you gotta go
public bathrooms
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