Tuesday, 30 June 2009
Confessions of a Neurotic
By Lyn Burnstine of The Lynamber Times
Whenever I go any place new, I always need clear, concise instructions right down to where the door is – even in which direction it faces. I’m sure this little bit of quirkiness is just part of my basic make-up. It never went away during all the years I was traveling to singing gigs all over the country. I would tape large-print sets of directions to the dashboard for the road part of it, then ask my liaison where the nearest door was and how close I could park.
Sure, it had to do with my painful feet and my difficulties with lugging instruments and heavy sound equipment, but there was more.
When I was about 12, I managed to traumatize myself - for life, evidently - with the results of a bad decision. I asked to ride along with my father in a borrowed truck to go pick up stuff in a distant town. My father was an industrial arts teacher who was pioneering a class in building an entire house from the ground up, with the students from each senior class, so I’m assuming the other school had some excess building materials to give him.
God knows why I thought it would be fun: time alone with my beloved father, perhaps? Getting out of doing my Saturday chores? Or just a rare chance to ride in a truck?
When we arrived there, my father was to meet with a man inside the school building. He asked if I wanted to go in with him; I said I’d wait in the truck, thinking it would be only a few minutes. No sooner had he gone in a door, not visible from the parking space, than I realized I needed to pee. BAD!
For all these intervening years, I’ve measured every agonizing full-bladder event against that one. None has even come close. My father loved to talk to people and had rare opportunities with the over-full working life he maintained holding down the equivalent of nearly three jobs to support his family.
He was in that building for at least an hour, maybe even two. It sure felt like more. I was in misery, but was too timid to go in search of an unlocked door, then the girls’ bathroom inside.
That may be hard for you to fathom, but not for me since I’ve never totally gotten over that particular area of shyness. I am at ease in front of large audiences; I’m only slightly intimidated by the numerous famous people I’ve met through my music; I’ve always said I’d be comfortable entertaining the queen of England as long as it’s in my house. BUT, don’t ask me to go looking in a strange, empty building for the ladies’ room.
Thank goodness for good old McDonald’s and Wendy’s with their uniform placement of rooms. There is a second verse to this song. Many of you regulars here have already heard it, or read it in my second book of memoir.
Locking myself in twice in public restrooms’ handicapped-accessible stalls that didn’t have handicapped-accessible doorknobs (!) has created a whole new fear. Not only do I now worry about finding the place, but about never being able to leave it once I do!
[EDITORIAL NOTE: All elders, 50 and older, are welcome to submit stories for this blog. They can be fiction, non-fiction, poetry, memoir, etc. Instructions for submitting are here.]
Posted by Ronni Bennett at 05:30 AM | Permalink | Email this post
Comments
After a few painful experiences like you had, I learned to follow the traveler's guide. Never stand when you can sit, never sit when you can lie down and NEVER fail to go to the bathroom.
I always locate the Loo whenever I enter a strange place.
I used the public restroom at Mt. San Michelle's in France and thought I would never get out. I share your fear now.
Posted by: Darlene on Jun 30, 2009 7:51:12 AM
