The Curse

Let me apologize if you were next to me in the bathroom stall today at Lord and Taylor. Or Macy's (twice). Or Nordstrom's. When it comes to shopping of any sort, even if it is not for me, I am stricken with The Curse almost like clockwork. It is not a pretty, convenient affliction.
I suppose the first memories I have of this problem were when I was pregnant and huge with Sophie. I was at Target, shopping for super sexy maternity clothes, when I felt a sudden and intense urge to, well, like my Grandma Seymour used to say, go big. NOW. Like this very second. Welcome The Curse into my life.
I always pray that there will be an empty bathroom and no one struck with the same problem at the same moment I have it. This afternoon I started out flying solo but then every damn sales associate who was on break decided it's "Let's Take a Piss and Chat to Our Boyfriends in the Can" Day. Bitches. Quickly urinating bitches. So I'm slumped in Stall #1, sweating profusely. I pull my feet back because the sure way to recognize the guilty shitter is by her shoes. I am trying the Muffle Dump maneuver, whereby you try to muffle the launch AND landing of your cargo by using an inordinate amount of toilet paper. Don't think I'm some sick perv who's into fecal fantasies, the key is to use a LOT of TP. No skids on the hands. But my issue was particularly severe today. I felt like I was trying to muzzle a rhinocerous on Ecstasy. WAY too much noise eminating from Stall #1, you guilty shitter!!! Courtesy flush, please! I felt like Austin Powers in the "Who Does #2 Work For" scene except MY #2 clearly was the boss of my ass today, no pun intended. So there I sat, watching the Piss Only Crew wrinkle their noses and waltz around , taking WAY too much fucking time to wash their hands. When I FINALLY sensed the lady next to me was the only one left and she, too, had The Curse, I quickly made my escape. Flush (thank you industrial airport toilet!), wash hands, wipe sweat off brow and under boobs (apparently my tits think even taking a dump is a good enough reason to perspire), powder my beet-red face, and make my getaway. The same Fatty Boombalatty I passed on my way in was still inhaling her frozen yogurt on the chair outside the restroom. She gave me "What the hell took you so long, Miss Poopy Longstocking?" I shot her my most sweet, "Just going tinkle, thanks!" smile and I was out of there...Until I hit Sephora and had to run into Lord and Taylor. By the way, if you'd like to know where the shitters are in any of the major department stores in the greater Chicago area, please ask me. I can Google Map them for you. But if you see my freshly pedicured toes peeking from beneath the stall door, find another bathroom, this shit's going to take awhile...