Little footed bathroom man

Let me lay out the scene. It was my first day with my new client, Morgan Stanley, and I’m at the office trying to build relationships, trust, impress everyone I meet, saying things I don’t mean, like, “How’s it going? My name is Todd, what’s your name? What department are you in?” Or some other nonsensical questions whose answers I have absolutely no interest in hearing.

Anyway, about half through the day I make a pit stop in the “mens” room. First thing I notice is how clean it is, leaving me with a really good first impression about the entire facility. In fact, as Ann will confirm, I always judge any restaurant we go to, not by the food, but by how clean the restroom is. It’s kinda like looking at a girl’s ankles when you’re dating. It tells you a lot about what the future holds. But again, I’m going down a proverbial rabbit trail, pulling me away from my story.

So, I’m impressed with the cleanliness, and even the smell of the bathroom. I’m thinking, “Man, this is a first class company, the bathrooms are like spring time, like the sunshine on my shoulders that John Denver is always going on and on about, I wonder if he works here…”

Then a noise! Scattering my thoughts, like little kittens scattering puffballs of…nevermind, that got away from me a bit. Outside of the everglade scented stall, I hear the pattering of little feet on the tile floor,

“pit pat pit pat pit pat”

I say to myself, in an Irish accent, of course, “Wow, self, he must be a wee little fellow, wearing wee little booties, ‘cause he sounds like an elf wearing ladies high heeeeeee…..oh, NO!”

I rush out of the stall, staring at me are the frightened eyes of a little Asian lady.

“Um, I think you’re in the wrong bathroom, sir.”

I couldn’t think of anything to stay, so I just stared stupidly at her, finally letting the words bumble out of my mouth,

“It’s my first day…my first day. I thought it looked funny in…ha ha. In the last place, this is where the men’s room was. Well, it wasn’t here, obviously their restroom couldn’t be here, but what I mean is it was on the left side of the hall, so I just assumed that…what department are you in? It’s my first…”

Then I tore off like a dejected Napoleon Dynamite.

Ever since that day, the memory still fresh with infamy, I’ve tried not to make eye contact with that lady. Thing is, I see her every single day as I walk out of the building. I imagine her telling everyone around her, after I leave for the day, about the “New perv guy” followed by a half snark sound that I can’t spell.

I’m looking for an opportunity to speak with her and beat down the palpable awkwardness, glaring off me like Bush at a State of the Union Address. I want to say something clever to cut through the weirdness, something like;

“Remember when you walked in and I was in the girl’s bathroom? Boy, did I ever think you were a funny, short, stubby legged man with wee little feet. Or a hoofed half man half goat, fawn type of creature, pit-pattering along. Remember that? Ha ha, good times…”

With just the right Irish brogue, I think it might help out, just a bit…or maybe I’ll just let it go.