The Time I Walked Face-First into the Closet
Just another normal day.
This past spring, I traveled with my friend Roz to sing in a choral performance at the Lincoln Center in NYC.
We had a wonderful time seeing the sights, reveling in the music, savoring good food and drink, and snatching moments for work, social connections, and sightseeing whenever we could.
But here’s the thing about me and Roz. Both of us, while fully smart and competent in our own unique ways, have discovered that when we’re together, we somehow become less than the sum of our parts.
Two heads aren’t always better than one is what I’m saying. Not when the two heads are mine and Roz’s.
It’s like we only have one brain to share between the both of us, and we have to take turns passing the smarts back and forth.
I’m not sure why this had to be.
Why can’t we both be capable of rational thought at the same time?
Maybe God recognized that with our combination of looks and brains, if we could both function at the peak of our powers at the same time, our combined energies would be too powerful.
Who knows.
Either way, one thing’s for sure.
On night four of our trip, I was definitely the one with the empty head.
I’d been up with the crickets, down in a cafe just off Times Square taking care of some editing before daylight had fully suffused the horizon. (Although I’m not sure there are crickets downtown. Up with the rats, maybe. Certainly, with the delivery drivers.)
Mid-morning, I sneaked in a miles-long walk through the city and Central Park before turning up for a seemingly endless succession of call times, run-throughs, tech rehearsals, and greenroom socializing, topped off with a high-energy performance.
Immediately after the show, Roz and I went our separate ways with local friends for dessert. We made plans to meet back up at the late-night performance afterparty.
Which is how it came to be that around 11pm, already half full of good food and drink, I wended my way through the neon-lighted streets, steam rising from the storm drains just like in the movies, to arrive at the restaurant where the afterparty was being held.
Upon entering and not immediately spotting Roz, I chatted with some friends before excusing myself to use the ladies’ room, deciding that if I didn’t spot Roz when I came out, I’d choose an empty booth back in a quiet corner, order a drink, and wait until she arrived so that we could hit the buffet together.
I navigated a narrow series of corridors on my way back to the bathrooms, almost ending up in the kitchen the way you sometimes do. The small bathroom only had two stalls, both currently empty. I chose one and quickly took care of business. Moments later, upon pulling the stall door open, who should be standing directly on the other side staring straight at me but Roz.
Call it post-performance giddiness. Call it the lateness of the hour. Call it being full of convivial food and beverages. Call it whatever you like.
All I know is the minute our eyes met, we both burst into spontaneous, delighted laughter.
Here we were, reunited at last!
While I quickly washed and dried my hands, we started updating one another on where we’d gone, who we’d seen, and what we’d eaten in our hours apart.
Right there in the middle of the tiny restaurant bathroom.
Why were we doing this?
I paused mid-sentence and jerked a thumb back over my shoulder. “Actually, I’ll go get us a table and wait for you outside.”
“Sounds great,” Roz sparkled at me.
Glowing with her approval, I whirled on my heel, reached for the handle of the door directly behind me, yanked it open, and stepped with great confidence, full steam ahead, directly into a shallow closet, my face coming in direct contact with a set of wooden shelves.
Time stopped.
There I stood, face full of shelves, trying to puzzle out what had just happened.
I turned and looked over my shoulder to ponder Roz, now draped over the sinks, one arm bracing herself against the counter, the other wrapped around her middle as she laughed in that wheezy, noiseless way people do when they’re so overcome with hilarity that sound hasn’t even caught up with them yet.
I stepped back, hand on the doorknob, trying to orient myself. Looked to the left and right, realizing that there were actually two doors adjacent to one another.
Apparently, I’d chosen the wrong one.
Sadly, this was not the first time I’d had trouble exiting a bathroom. And coincidentally—hilariously, even—the couple whose bathroom I’ve been most infamously trapped in (an account of which is recorded in my book Socially Awkward) also happened to be at the afterparty that night.
Because of course they were.
Negotiating the correct door with care, I left Roz wheezing in the bathroom and immediately sought them out.
“I just had trouble getting out of a bathroom again,” I announced.
Nobody looked surprised.
Because of course they weren’t.
Just another normal day.
I love these stories of yours.
HA!!