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.
Hee! And you can’t even blame it on toddler-wrangling /sigh/.
My moment like that was as I was being ushered down the center aisle of church and my arms were full of my daughter. The usher was kind enough to point out to me that my skirt hem was tuckedin to my panty hose. (–Like I wear those anymore)