Last week, I noticed that I’ve lost enough weight where I can cross my legs. Well, yesterday I had another small victory — I used a regular bathroom stall.
And by regular size, I mean the ones where the gap between the sweep of the door and the toilet is less than an inch.
That may seem a strange thing to celebrate, but for me it felt wonderful to walk into a small stall without having to purposely dislocate a shoulder, yogi-like, to fit.
In the past, a trip to the ladies room usually started with me staring at the open stall like a cow studying a Rubik’s Cube. Then came the laughable task of trying to slide around the wall without falling into the toilet. If I made it that far, I’d lean back like Neo, dodging bullets in The Matrix, to get the door closed. Then I’d repeat the process, in reverse, to get out.
For ages, I’d used the handicapped stalls, all the while secretly worrying I’d get reported by an actual handicapped person (to whomever one tattles to in those situations). Maybe they’d give me a ticket? Maybe they’d put my picture on the door, frowning and sucking-in my stomach, with the caption, “Not Handicapped”.
My next challenge: flying coach without the threat of gangrene.