After taking in the art work and saddles I arrive at the restroom. I enter and pause for a moment.
I look around the shimmering, nicely decorate restroom and I don’t see any urinals.
That’s odd I think to myself. Maybe this resturant is so “upscale” urinals are not part of the “fung-sei”
With nature calling and my head full of San Francisco fog, I head for the stall.
I shut the door, and then I hear someone else enter the restroom.
After a few moments, I exit the stall and head for the sink.
I notice a pair of women’s shoes in the stall next to mine.
My fuzzy brain, swollen on Lone Star amusement juice is suddenly working on this mystery without any clues.
“What the hell isa man doing wearing women’s shoes in the men’s room,” I think to myself.
A part of my wobbly self wants to drop to the ground and peer under the stall door and see just what I’m dealing with here.
“To each his own,” I muse and exit.
I open the door and then like a light house beacon, the realization envelopes me. I see the other door in the alcove clearly labeled Men. I spin around and see the sign on the door I just exited and there it is is aqua colored, slightly hidden letters: WOMEN.
OH NO! I DIDN’T JUST USE THE WOMEN’S ROOM DID I?
Before I can shake the fog out of my brain, My buddies start howling with laughter pointing at me and falling about the lobby.
I smile knowing I am just an idiot.
Then, as if on cue, the woman’s door opens and an older woman exits the women’s room. She is wearing her Sunday best. And there are those shoes again.
My buddies are laughing so hard tears are rolling down their cheeks. The woman stares at my sad sack group of friends and quickly strides by.
All I can think is thank God she didn’t see me. What in the world would I have said.
And that my friends is crazy.