If you see me standing at my desk today, it’s not because I’m feeling particularly energetic or even avoiding the back pain that comes with sitting. It’s because I don’t want to sit on my dress. Not because I might mess it up (I already did that), but because I might wet my underpants.
Let’s just say that my morning toilette ended with a close encounter with the toilet.
OK. I’ll confess. I dunked the entire backside of my dress in the toilet a few moments ago — in an attempt to get dry, no less. And though I wrung it out over the toilet and dabbed some non-thirsty industrial brown paper towels at the wetness, it remains quite wet.
But if I stand, my fit and flare dress doesn’t touch my skin or my underclothes. So stand I shall.
My day began purposely wet. The health club’s pool has been closed since March 5, a day that will live in infamy, according to my back. It’s being rebuilt, but the original expected 10 weeks of construction has expanded to 16 — and rumors abound that the pool won’t open until August. My back couldn’t take it anymore, and so I took it to the city pool at 6 for 50-meter lap swimming this morning.
“I’ll definitely want to do this again,” my friend Emily told me as she exited the pool after her workout. “I might even come on Saturday.”
“It was lovely,” I had responded at the time. “I definitely want to return.”
That was before I got ready in the pool’s locker room. Following the — surprise! — cold shower, I attempted to mop the wetness from my hair and skin. Except that I couldn’t really get my skin dry.
Oh. No hot water AND no air conditioning. I might have to bring two towels next time to counteract the water and the humidity.
My reverse tie-dyed blue towel (because I washed the non-colorfast towel with my whites in bleach water) is thirsty and did its best to absorb the wetness. But I put on underwear and dress over wet skin and kept my flip flops on my feet, figuring I could change footwear at work.
Where I would blow dry my hair.
Because — surprise! — no electrical outlets in the locker room. (I thought that was a possibility.)
I arrived at work in a dress, wet hair and flip flops 45 minutes before the scheduled day began. Of course, I had to pass by the only colleague at work that early and, thus, had to explain the wet-rat look I was rocking that morning.
“I’ll probably have to blow dry my feet after I dry my hair,” I told John, laughing.
I admit that I did. I dried my hair and then my feet and thought I’d sit on the toilet to put on my shoe liners and shoes. A toilet was made for sitting, after all. Brilliant idea.
I considered multi-tasking and hiking up my dress to use the toilet for its normal function as I put on my footwear but decided that wasn’t necessary.
And so I plopped onto the pot, fit and flare dress and all, and donned my shoe liners and a pair of new shoes. Yay, me.
I stood then, wondering if the auto-flush toilet was smart enough to know I didn’t need a flush — did it respond to movement? Or only bowel movements? As I twirled to watch, I heard a splash and the auto-flush engage — and felt water dripping on my legs. What was this? I’d inadvertently given my dress a swirly (and ruined my scientific observation about auto-flushing in the process).
(At least it was a clean toilet!)
Then I attempted to squeeze the water out of my dress and blot the fabric dry with the industrial brown semi-absorbent paper towels in the bathroom. I also wiped the drips from the seat and floor and my legs.
I had to laugh at myself as I walked the hall, again past my colleague John, and told him:
“I don’t think I’m going to win today. I’m still wet.”
I shared the details, because, of course, they are humorous, if you’re not the one wearing a dress that is wet and cold with toilet water. Eau de toilette? No, just unscented toilet water. For which I am incredibly thankful.
And as I walked away, I heard my new shoes squeaking. Sadness and wetness. I hate squeaky shoes.
On the other hand, I already had won the day. I got to swim while watching the sky change color with the rising sun. I did backstroke using the clouds instead of vents and light fixtures in the ceiling to guide me in a straight line.
I learned what not to do while wearing a dress.
And I have a great story to tell.