Potty Humor

I experienced a miracle this past weekend.

I know I’ve written about miracles before (Read: https://staging.midlifebloomer.com/miracle/), but this was legit.

Remember when Moses parted the Red Sea?*

Yeah, like that.

Last Saturday night, I attended a country concert at SoFi Stadium in Los Angeles.

The crowd was on their feet, knowing any second, lights would dim, and country star, Kenny Chesney, would take the stage.

This was, of course, the time I realized I had to go to the bathroom.

I was instantly filled with dread because we all know the risks of a trip to the women’s bathroom at a concert venue.

You have to ask yourself, Do you want to miss half the concert, or do you want your bladder to explode?

Hmmm. I really like this song, but I also really like my bladder.

You can convince yourself that maybe, just maybe, this venue contains an appropriate number of stalls, and you’ll be in and out in a jiff.

That’s what I told myself at the 2012 Coldplay concert at the Hollywood Bowl.

Surely, Coldplay wouldn’t perform “Viva La Vida” without me.

But there I was, encased in a tiny, drab stall, dirty linoleum beneath my feet, while I hummed to the far-off and barely audible lyrics…

“…Next, the walls were closing in on me…”

Yes, they were.

I wasn’t going to make the same mistake at this concert.

Minutes before Kenny took the stage, my bladder said, “Time to go.”

My brain pleaded, “But, we’ll miss his opening song!”

“We’re going,” my bladder responded.

A bladder does not negotiate.

“I’ll be right back,” I told Steve.

And by “right back,” I meant I’ll be back in roughly the time it took Moses to reach the promised land.

Dejected, I walked towards the bathroom, bracing myself for the inevitable line.

But there were no lines.

Or bathrooms.

Uh, oh.

A security guard saw the terror on my face and pointed to a row of porta potties.

And another.

And another.

There were porta potties as far as the eye could see.

But these were not your usual dirty, dilapidated tombs of sadness.

These were shiny and new and their polyethylene exteriors sparkled beneath the stadium lights.

Holy Moses, I had reached the promised land!

And the best part…

NO LINES!

Not ONE single person waiting.

The stadium sat 70,000 people and by my calculations, there were 70,000 porta potties.

Did Oprah design this stadium?

“You get a porta potty! You get a porta potty! You get a porta potty!”

I turned the latch, stepped inside, and..

Let there be light!

But not harsh, fluorescent light.

Soft, gentle light.

(A middle-aged woman’s best friend.)

And did I tell you about the flooring?

Oh, there was flooring.

No stained cement, no filthy linoleum.

Carpet.

Clean, plush carpet.

So clean, you could eat your dinner on it.

Though I wouldn’t recommend that.

And a toilet.

A REAL toilet!

With a handle.

And toilet paper.

But not the usual stuff that shreds into confetti as you unravel the roll, thus resulting in your own sad parade.

This was soft, cushiony, 2-ply! 

Hello, Charmin!

And let’s not forget the perfectly clean mirror.

Which you don’t even mind looking into, because of the nice lighting.

But enough about the lighting. Can we talk about the sink?

It was GINORMOUS!

Seriously, you could take a bath in it.

Again, I wouldn’t recommend it.

Also, there were real paper towels.

Bounty, is that you?

Exiting the facility, I marveled at the riches that had been bestowed upon me.

But the even better news was that I didn’t miss a minute of the concert!

Two hours of Kenny Chesney, singing about beer, beaches, and of course…

his tractor.

Which I’m sure is a mighty fine tractor.

But, trust me, it’s no SoFi porta potty.

*I’m not implying that you were there when Moses parted the Red Sea. You’re not that old.