Nosy Old Biddy

I'm still pissed at her effrontery, even while I understand what's behind it.

I freely admit, when I'm at work and in the company uniform, I'm not the most feminine in appearance. The hair is short and no longer colored to cover the white, jewelry is in short supply - though not absent - and I don't wear make-up. The shoes are always comfortable, meaning no heels, traction soles, and wide to fit my feet. This combination these days seems to only be found in the men's department. The button-down shirts and basic sweatshirts or jackets also come from the men's departments, since there are too few of us women working my job for the company to offer them in both genders. Oh yeah, the boobs aren't huge either. So I do make allowances for that first mistaken impression that here is yet another male, and try to deflect it with humor.

But on Friday this old biddy took it way too far. I had stopped off at the Holiday station store in Wayzata for a very necessary pit stop, since bathrooms are fewer and farther between these days for people working out of their cars, especially those of us who can't just christen a bush with our back turned. I was opening the restroom door when a commotion started behind me. I ignored it thinking it could have nothing to do with me.

I was misinformed. As I turned to close the door, this old biddy, 80 if she was a day, charged right in behind me, blocking the door and yelling at me, "Those are for WOMEN!" I realized that her yelling that at me earlier was the commotion I had ignored.

Now since both the restrooms had the green "Vacant" sign showing on the door, I clearly had my choice of which bathroom I needed. Were I a man, I certainly would have chosen the other door. It also occurred to me that perhaps she thought she needed to use the facilities more than I did at that moment, although she was wrong. And I was there first. I wasn't feeling like standing around holding a polite discussion with her, delicately informing her of the error of her assumptions or of her bahavior. And as always, mindful of the uniform and it's limiting influence on my choices, I wasn't about to thoroughly cuss her out. All of this was considered in about one full second.

Holding the door and standing my ground, I simply growled at her, "I am a woman, thank you very much!" in as icy tone as I could manage, and forced the door closed and latched it.

I do hope she was completely embarrassed. There were several other people standing around to enjoy the spectacle. But I suppose that someone who assumes the right to chase others out of restrooms carries the unshakable conviction of their own superiority.

As I left, she was paying the cashier by the door. Either she hadn't needed to use the restroom herself, or used the MEN's room. I resisted the impulse to tell her, "Hey, Old Biddy, your nose has grown so long that it's started interfering with your vision!"

It was that uniform thing again. Drat!


* * * *

Last week there was also a radio interview with someone putting out a new book on the theme of writing your memoirs in six words. Many people had sent submissions and the best made it into the book. Radio listeners were invited to call in with their own versions. While driving, not calling, I played along. I toyed with themes like "not rich, not famous, still trying" and "still not wealthy enough to retire", but finally settled on the theme that seems to sum up the last 24 years of my working life: "always hunting for the next restroom!"