(post copyright 2012, Dawn Weber)
This will come as a total shock, but I am not averse to a little male nudity.
No, I will not turn away from a nicely presented package - especially of the handsome young movie star variety - on the big screen or whatnot. The week "Magic Mike" premiered, I rushed to pre-order a ticket, just like many other females. Furthermore, I have been known to attend an inappropriate bachelorette party or two hundred.
Yes, I am just your typical pervy red-blooded American woman.
But if I'm not careful, I'm going to end up as a registered sex offender.
Perhaps I should explain.
It had started out as a pretty good day. I'd just purchased some cute boots at Sears - on sale, even. Earlier that afternoon, I had achieved my dream of taking a nap. A sunny October Friday, close to 5 p.m., and I was looking forward to opening a nice box of wine.
Sunny day, cute boots, box of wine. Pretty much as good as it gets.
So yeah. I felt great, rolling into the Wally World parking lot to pick up groceries, prescriptions and said box.
Then I realized: I had to pee. Of course. I'm 43. If I am upright, I have to pee. If I am awake, I have to pee.
If I am breathing, I have to pee.
This dampened haha my happy mood a bit, because if there's one place more dubious than Walmart, it's the Walmart restrooms. The un-flushed toilets . . . the trash on the floor . . . the many women ambling their large, wide loads out the door without hand-washing . . . it's enough to send a OCD lunatic germophobe like me over the edge.
Still - my fate was sealed. I had to pee. Of course.
So I parked the car, pulled out a cart, doused it with sanitizer the way I do, and steeled myself for the seething mass of humanity I'd soon encounter. I headed through the doors and walked into the restroom.
And there they stood, in front of God and everybody and the women's room. Two men. Two sets of lowered pants.
Two super-soakers. Soaking.
I froze, the shock rendering me momentarily unable to move. My brain reeled. The hell? I couldn't figure it out, why they were urinating in the ladies' room. With a perfectly good men's room next door, for nut's sake!
As I said, I enjoy glancing at a nice six-shooter as much as the next demented gal. But first of all, I wasn't prepared. Have I mentioned this was Walmart? And also, let me tell you - these were no Magic Mikes.
More like Homeless Hanks.
In other words, your typical Walmart shoppers.
So I certainly wasn't sticking around for this particular movie. No sir. After a moment of dumbfounded stupefaction, I spun on my heel and rushed out the door.
And that's when I saw it.
Great balls of fire, I'd done it. Walked into the men's room at the Heath Walmart.
Again.
That's right. You read it correctly. I have done this before.
But it's not all my fault. I am not a sex-starved Alzheimer's patient yet - give it time, visiting the men's room for cheap thrills. No.
You see, the Heath, Ohio Walmart has been remodeled at least twice in the last seven years, and the sick bastards who designed it this time flip-flopped the layout and put the men's restroom on the left, and the women's on the right.
Everyone knows the ladies' room at the Walmart goes on the LEFT, I cannot emphasize this enough.
THE LEFT!
I saw no more of the Hanks at the store. I had seen plenty of them, anyway. I quickly finished my shopping while pondering my dementia.
Later, I posted my faux pas on Facebook, and to my happy surprise, several females also admitted wandering into men's rooms. And my friend Mechelle, also not an Alzheimer's patient - or even a blonde - has walked into the Heath Walmart men's room. Twice.
"I hate it when Walmart isn't consistent with their bathroom placement," said Mechelle, my new BFF.
After publishing this piece, I know I'll hear it again from the Target shoppers, the politically correct, the culturally elite, all about the evils of Walmart and how they NEVER go there because:
- The corporation drives American companies out of business;
- WM managers work their employees just under full-time to avoid paying benefits;
- Many Walmart shoppers are half-nude, potential crackheads with questionable hygiene.
But, as I've mentioned, I grew up a relatively poor kid, outside of Youngstown. The metaphorical steel mill could close anytime, people. Best be prudent. And though I'm not financially challenged anymore, the experience has made me a notorious cheapskate and physically incapable of paying anything other than the lowest possible prices.
Crackheads - and bad bathroom placement - be damned.
Anyway, I'm in a perpetual hurry, our Target doesn't sell alcohol, and I just want to pick up my Lysol wipes, my prescriptions and my box of wine in one place, so I can go the hell home. I'm not at the store to socialize.
Unless it's in the men's room.
Apparently.
