...when I used the women's restroom by the FBI Office.

I have a job.  I go to an office every day to do that job.  That office is inside a building which contains other offices.

Here, it’s like this:

 So on each floor of the building there are two sets of restrooms—two men’s, two women’s.

It may or may not surprise you, but community restrooms make me anxious.  Sometimes I just want to take care of that stuff ALONE, ok?  It may be too early in the blog for me to be talking about restrooms, but they're a part of my life, so I'm not going to pretend like they're not.

Luckily, the other office on our floor is occupied by the FBI.  I’m not making this up.  I don’t think they do anything serious over there, though.  Except for probably spying on EVERYONE.

It occurred to me one day that if there is any women’s restroom that is unlikely to see a lot of traffic, it’s the one by the FBI office.  I have never seen a woman walking into that office.

I try to keep my FBI women’s restroom trips down to about once every 2 or 3 weeks because I don’t want them to get suspicious.  But sometimes I just gotta go somewhere I know I’ll be alone.

So I walk past the elevators—the point of no return.  I round the corner, and there it is.

At that point, I try not to act suspicious, which means I pointedly ignore the shiny black glass bubble that isn’t fooling anyone.  If that shiny black glass bubble and I were exes at a party, I would be so cool.

Sometimes I shoot the shiny black glass bubble a glance, just to prove I’m not avoiding its eye, and then I breeze past.  I can feel it watching my back, but I keep moving.  And then I’m there.

Usually, it is one of my favorite places on Earth.  But not this time.  This time, it was a bit like running upstairs in a horror movie when the killer is in the house.  There’s no way to get out of that.  No sooner had I ensconced myself than I was trapped.

I wish I could say I made that up for this blog.  But I actually thought that.  Actually, I thought a lot, starting with:

But since “normal” in a restroom for me is panicking and making absolutely no sound so that I’m trapped into continuing to make no sound because the longer I make no sound the weirder it would be to make a sound, that really isn’t saying much.  I did convince myself not to lift up my feet; she already knew I was there.

In fact, I was pretty sure she was there specifically for me.  I just knew that she was the one female FBI agent, and they sent her to do recon.  Or to neutralize me so I could be captured and interrogated.

Predictably, the woman, whoever she was, just flushed the toilet, washed her hands, and high-heeled her way out without detonating any travel-sized cans of noxious gas. 

But still.  Just to be on the safe side, I’ve cut down my trips to the restroom by the FBI office.

Note: I promise that not every entry I write will have to do with restrooms.  It was just these last two.  And I've got one more up my sleeve, but I won't tell you when it's coming.  It'll be a surprise.