spies like us

originally posted April 14, 2007

When I was a young qwanty, back before my q developed and I was merely 'wanty', I had a deep desire to be involved in espionage. I wanted to be a spy. I also had a hankering to be a detective, and had a red telephone devoted to my practice. I had no means of plugging it into a wall though, so I never really got many calls. I also wanted to be a cat burglar. I dallied in imaginary thievery, sometimes accompanied by Kermit the Frog, but more often it was Great Muppet Caper leading man Charles Grodin who whispered the order for watch synchronization. My little girl head was filled with an elaborate world of danger, intrigue, and hats. Hats figured prominently in the fantasy life I would one day not actually lead, both on me and on everyone else. There were few eyepatches, however.

One day my friend Jill and I locked ourselves in the bathroom. We were trapped. I can't remember the exact mission, having been trapped in a bathroom so many times. I can assure you though that it was a dire situation. That day, as little girls often do, Jill and I frequently broke character to discuss the direction the plot was going. This time, we challenged one another to come up with what you would eat if you were trapped in a bathroom. I would eat toothpaste. Jill, it turned out, would also eat toothpaste. Why, we could live on toothpaste and water for weeks! No, we wouldn't eat soap, and we wouldn't eat cotton balls. It was toothpaste and water for us. We were naïve, never thinking of the possibility that our captors might have non-functioning plumbing or just not care about their teeth. We anticipated some of our captors would have false teeth of course, but assumed an accompanying regimen of care that would involve fizzy soaking tablets dissolved in water. This we would drink, our naïveté extending to our belief that this would be nutritionally equivalent to toothpaste. I could not WAIT to be trapped in a bathroom.

Now that I'm a full grown qwanty, I sometimes lock myself in the bathroom. In moments of crisis, this is where I retreat. A hearty slam of the door, a defiant flip of the lock, and I am trapped in a bathroom. I'm no longer a spy though, or a cat burglar, or a detective. I'm not even wearing a hat. I'm crying, or angry, or anxious. Being trapped in a bathroom makes it all feel a little better, though. I sit on the floor, and stare at the lights. I close my eyes and see spots. I think, and I breathe. I do these things until I no longer want to be trapped in a bathroom, not without a beer at least. But of course, by this time I really feel trapped. The downside of storming away in a huff is the eventual shamed return to the scene of the crime, where a guy inevitably scolds you for slamming the door. Maybe it would be easier if he were wearing an eyepatch – it's hard to say. In any case, my desire to avoid this leaves me trapped in a bathroom. What will I do? Sure, there's running water, but no clean glasses. What will I eat? Toothpaste? No. I know better now. I won't eat toothpaste – I'm a savvier spy. Now, challenged with this question, the answer is obvious: if I were trapped in a bathroom, I'd drink the cough syrup, chase it with some mouthwash, and kick down the door. And if that doesn't work, I'll wait for Charles Grodin.