Thirty-six inches of shame
Sushi. I have this thing about sushi. LOVE IT. Sushi is my all-time favorite food ever. Well, other than chocolate. So Paul and I went out to eat the other night and stuffed ourselves full of absolutely delectable sushi. Afterwords, we decided to play some pool. (We LOVE to play pool but unfortunately have not had many opportunities since Nathan joined the family… so we indulge ourselves with a few games on the rare night out without the kid.)
So after we settled ourselves in, I excused myself to the restroom. When I came out, there was a booth near the restrooms manned by representatives from a local gym who were handing out free gym passes. One of the guys asked me if I would be interested, and as I politely declined, a waitress came up to me and said, “Excuse me, but you’ve got some toilet paper stuck to your shoe.”
I looked down.
Sure enough, I did have toilet paper stuck to the bottom of my shoe. And it wasn’t just a couple little squares of toilet paper. It wasn’t even a foot or two of toilet paper. Nope, I had at least THREE FEET of toilet paper stuck to the bottom of my classy wedges. Crumpled up, damp, dirty and possibly-used toilet paper.
Thirty-six inches of pure mortification.
How does that even happen? I mean, who in the hell pulls out three long feet of toilet paper, possibly uses it, and then just drops it on the floor? I mean my goodness, THERE ARE THIRTY-SIX INCHES OF TISSUE TO HOLD ON TO!
Even worse, how in the hell did I not notice this long flowing trail of crumpled foulness that was trailing lazily from my foot?