Airplane bathrooms don’t bother me. I prefer to do my business before and after the flight, but if I gotta go, I go.

On the flight from Colorado Springs to Minneapolis, nature called. So I strode to the rear restroom, dutifully placed two sections of toilet paper on the seat, sat and went, then flushed and washed my hands.

I was striding confidently back to my seat, which was up front near first class, when I felt something odd. I reached back toward my tush and there was a length of toilet paper hanging from my waistband.

One of the sections I’d carefully placed on the seat apparently adhered to me.

Sigh.

I quickly pulled it out and crumpled it up. But not until I’d already walked half the length of the plane.

I love moments like that. Truly.