Just FYI: this is the women’s bathroom.
We have communal bathrooms here, though we have sinks in our rooms. After my shower this morning, I was in my room, buck naked, splashing orange flower water on myself when I heard someone groping with the door handle.
I just figured it was the door right next to mine because the walls are thin (I know this because my neighbor says the cadence of my snoring lulls her to sleep at night; yes, she’s very sweet). But it sounded closer than that, so I looked, and sure enough my door handle was turning.
“Um, this is my room,” I squawked.
But she either didn’t hear me or couldn’t process the statement in her sleep-deprived state (we’re all sleep-deprived!) because she opened the door and walked right in.
I did mention I was buck naked, right? As in, no robe, no panties, not a stitch. I didn’t even have a towel where I could grab it and cover myself. I just squawked again, much louder, and even I could hear the panic in my voice.
When her eyes met mine, she was shocked. Horrified, really (out of embarrassment, of course, because you just know I look fabuloso in my skin). She backed right out of that door, much faster than she came in.
I guffawed the whole time. It was hilarious. Best thing that’s happened here since Diana Rowland left yesterday (don’t tell anyone, but I SOOO have a crush on her: she’s lovely and smart, intelligent, talented and funny too — what’s not to love?).
So what does this have to do with the civilizing influence of women? Well, we know if it had been a man who stumbled into my room, he’d have taken a nice, long eyeful before apologizing and backing out.
You couldn’t really blame him. I have a very impressive rack, after all.
I know this because Diana Rowland read my entry The View From my Window, and she admitted she was totally staring at my rack.
Yes, she did! Would I lie? Those were her exact words, “I wasn’t staring at your nametag. I was totally staring at your rack.”
It is, as we’ve established, a very nice one.