There comes a time in every woman’s life where she is faced with a life-changing decision, and that moment may alter the course of her future forever. I was faced with this very moment last Tuesday at a popular Mexican restaurant in Venice Beach.
There were throngs of bikini-clad women guzzling 32-ounce Peach-a-Ritas, and I was one of them. Everything seemed to be going perfectly. But just as my voice was reaching the tipsy shrillness that only the voice of a sorority beer-bong champion could, it hit me. I had to pee. Real bad.
Without hesitation, I raced to the restroom door marked “Señoritas” only to find seven women in front of me. My bladder didn’t have that kind of time: I glanced around looking for a dark corner, anything to provide me with relief.
Then I saw it – the door marked “Señors” stood ajar. There was not a man in sight. I glanced around the bar nervously. If I was going to act, it had to be now. I looked at my fellow female comrades standing beside me in line, and brazenly announced, “Fuck it.”
I held my breath, pushed the door open, and quickly locked it behind me. As I flicked on the light, I was faced with a strange, unfamiliar world: a layer of wet, dirty toilet paper, a seat with the lid up, complete with a drizzling of urine on the basin. What kind of monsters dwelled here? I entered the only stall with a working lock, pulled down my panties, and managed to hover just enough above the toilet to not let my skin touch the porcelain. I had excreted most of my Peach-A-Rita when I felt my thighs begin to tremble. What if a man had walked in and saw my pedicure through the stall door, or just felt a girlish presence in the room? I shudder to think about it. But just when I thought my legs would buckle and plunge me into the bodily fluid abyss, I finished. I looked in the dick-drawn mirror at the face of a brave and accomplished woman. A woman who’d risked everything to do what she had to do.
I opened the door shielding my hand with a paper towel, and emerged victorious and alive. I looked at the college girls who still waited in the hallway. I flashed them a triumphant smile, knowing I did something that these would never dream of. Textbooks dedicated to the women’s movement will now read: Rosa Parks, Betsy Ross, and the Woman Who Used the Men’s Bathroom.