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Super Secret Agent Spy

I am a writer. And a doodler. And an eater of Twizzlers. And the mother of MuShu, the wonder puppy. I love long walks on the beach, fast cars, fine din. . .whoops. Wrong website. . ....

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Knock Twice, Open Once

A few years ago, our office underwent some amazing renovations. We added a new wing to the building without disrupting the wonderful, historic flow of the city block. (Quite a feat in our town.) During this renovation, we were lucky enough to be given the most lovely restrooms installed on each floor.

Rather than looking like any old restroom you'd see in an office, these restrooms are large and roomy. There is a chair for sitting and changing your shoes (should you wish to go for a walk), there are hooks to hang your clothes, coats, gym bags, etc. There's potpurri, cabinets for toiletries, fancy-smelling soap. . .the works!

And there are two stalls.

Two stalls.

With locks.

This past Monday, I opened the door to our lovely little haven just in time to witness a cacophony of shrieks.

"OH MY GOD! IDA! I'm SO SORRY!"

"Shouldn't. . . you. . .knock?"

"Shouldn't YOU lock the door?"

With complete and utter lack of restraint, I added to the echoing ruckus with laughter of my own.

By the time poor, put-out Ida cleared the room, I was collapsed in an asthmatic fit of tears and laughter in the comfy little chair in the corner of the room. Tara, the unwitting victim/antagonist, was just staring at me with small giggles escaping her. She looked puzzled, which only made me laugh harder.

I took some deep breaths and tried to hold it together.

"Was it that funny?" she asks, to which I responded by losing whatever composure I'd gained and dissolving into a cackling mess all over again. Hoooooooooooooo! She was going to have to wait for the answer.

When I could finally catch my breath, I was able to tell her the tales of at least two other people who had encountered Ida atop her throne, mid-wipe, hollering about knocking and what-not.

"No way!"

"Yes. Way. Indeed."

Now, one time is an accident.

Twice is unfortunate.

But three times? THREE TIMES? Well, three times that we know of. After all, there could be more victims, hiding their discovery in shame. Anyway, my point is, how many times are you going to get walked in on before you start locking the damn door?

As uncomfortable as it is for Ida, it's *just* as much of a freak-out for the rest of us to see someone in the act of doing their business. I mean, really, there is just no way to feel better about someone catching you in the act. Can you imagine knowing that someone saw your big-ole-pale butt hanging over the toilet seat? Face it, sitting on the commode doesn't do our thighs any favors either. God almighty! If I had to walk around upright with my thighs looking like they do when I sit down to pee, I'd be plugging the Dyson into my hips and hitting the "on" switch.

No matter how you look at it, it ain't pretty. (Unless you're into that.) I can't imagine one person I know looking lovely squatting on the loo. Not one.

I know. I know. I'm sure there are people out there saying "Well, you should knock." But we did knock. We always do. We were just operating on the "Knock-as-you-are-entering-because-if-someone-were-in-there-the-handle-wouldn't-give" assumption. BECAUSE IT WOULD BE LOCKED!

I wince as I think of poor Ida, who is a very slow and deliberate speaker, never having a chance to utter a warning before we burst in. Please, don't misunderstand me. Ida isn't "slow" by any stretch of the imagination. She is a brilliant librarian, with doctorates and degrees that I can only dream of obtaining. But her speech is very pointed and very deliberate.

So, I imagine poor Ida, as she stares in horror, through her lovely and fashionable tortise shell glasses, at the turning handle. . .starting to form the words "no" or "occupied". . .but before her first syllable escapes. . .WHAM! Her space and privacy are invaded with screams and the slamming of the door. So much for a moment of peace.

It's just that. . .Ida is brilliant. So why can't she lock the door?

Is she claustrophobic?

Is she afraid that she will fall in and no one will be able to rescue her, should the door be locked?

Is she just waiting for the day when someone will walk in, act like everything is normal and just start talking about the weather?

Does she. . .like it?

We discussed it, puzzled over it and finally came to the conclusion that poor Ida must just be afraid of being locked into a bathroom stall and we vowed to be more careful in the future. She *is* a bit older and maybe she's afraid of falling or something. So, the new protocol towards closed doors is K.P.L.P.

Knock

Pause

Listen

Proceed

We were all very satisfied with ourselves and a little smug about our resolution. No more walking in on Ida and Ida can live free from the fear of unannounced visitors to her quiet oasis. We are too old to be this arrogant.

Becuase I tell you, this morning. . .this very morning. . . I breezed into the restroom happy-as-you-please, stepped into the stall and as I was closing the door, firmly pushed the "lock" button with my thumb. . .like I always do.

I sat down and at a critical moment (reaching for the paper), just happened to rest my gaze on the door handle. IT WAS UNLOCKED. I gasped and with bended knees swaddled in panties, scooched up, reached across the stall and pushed the button again again. It locked for good this time.

I'm in my office now, on my knees, thanking whatever benevolent God of Office Karma there is for the red alert, because not a breath after I locked the stall, someone burst into the ladies room and rattled the handle on the stall I was in.

 I was almost Ida. It would’ve served me right.

 All that time spent psychoanalyzing Ida for her potty habits and it all comes down to this: A faulty lock. As I sit here in my office, I'm debating on whether or not to tell the other to members of the "I Walked In On Ida" club. I mean, karmically speaking, I should tell them about it. That way, they'd see how silly we all were for secretly suspecting that Ida might be an exhibitionist whack-job.

But the mischievous side of me wants to suan le. . ."let it be." It might be fun to see who the next Ida is going to be.

Muah ha.

Muha ha ha.

Muah ha ha ha.

Muah ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha!

**(I suppose I’ll tell them. It’s only fair. Like most of my ideas, NOT telling them is better in theory than reality. xoxo)