My Life is a Joke. And Yours is Too.


It began with an adventure into Chicago with D.  We headed to a restaurant that overlooked Michigan Avenue and had a lovely meal.  As we finish dinner, I head to the restroom for the second time of the evening.  As I am walking into the bathroom I am distracted by a mom who is really struggling to put on her daughters jacket- it appears that the zipper just won’t go up.  Anyways, I turn around and head through the bathroom door.  I am wandering down the rather long and skinny bathroom to the stall on the end. As I am walking I notice that the seat is up in one stall and think hmm that’s odd, but the rest are down so I don’t think much of it.  I walk into the last stall and realize something is a little off.  I have already been in the last stall of the bathroom.  I just don’t remember this brick wall.  I hear footsteps and do something rather unladylike. While holding my hair I go to peer underneath the stall door.

I see dress loafers. My fears are confirmed. Yup, I am in the MENS restroom. THE MENS RESTROOM. All the way at the very end, locked in a stall. And there is a man in the bathroom. At this point I am dying, trying to hold in the laughter that would clearly give me way.  But I hold my calm and check under the stall again, the coast appears clear.  Not having much of a choice, I walk as quickly as possible down the never ending bathroom. As I am walking, I notice on the left a line of urinals. HOW ON EARTH DID I MISS THESE THE FIRST TIME? At this point I have picked up my pace and I am just feet from the door… as it begins to open.  A young guy probably in his early 20’s walks in.  I can’t hold the laughter in anymore.  I run out the door giggling and he is definitely laughing at me.  I am not sure what he thought I was doing in there, but the whole thing was just such a joke.  It was my first experience in a men’s bathroom- not one I will be repeating soon.

Post men’s bathroom experience, a trip to Forever 21 in search of sparkles and a failed frozen yogurt adventure, we board the West Line.  Headed back to Genovia.  It’s around 9:40pm and it’s looking like a lengthy, fairly boring ride. How I was wrong.  This group of three men (?) sit in the row perpendicular to us.  Seems normal enough.  Then this group of three young girls sit opposite of them, across the divider.  Still don’t think much of it.

It takes a minute, but I realize that they are together. And are all wearing WEDDING RINGS.  They are the “young-and-married-type”.  One couple is actually wearing matching style gloves, you know those ones that have cut off finger tips. Yup, they did it. So whatever, they are married and sitting across from each other on the train. They are planning thanksgiving dinner, right down to the teaspoons of vanilla extract and the sticks of butter. Boring. I close my eyes and rest my head against the window.    After awhile I hear a “psssst” and look up to see the camera being handed from the boys side to the girls side. The girls are looking at the pictures and giggling, again, whatever.  And then it all begins.

A PHOTOSHOOT ON THE TRAIN. The girls start saying things like these: “You just realized your wife is the cutest one” and then snapping the expressions the boys make in response.  They only get worse. “You just realized it’s thanksgiving night and you ran out of wine,” “You just realized [wife #1] left her purse at the restaurant,” “new car,” “[Wife #2] just dropped the entire turkey on the kitchen floor”. Wait, like what? I don’t get it. You are like maybe 23, 25 TOPS.  Your life is officially a joke.

Then, Husband #2 says in that sing songy I am talking to a pouty 3 year old voice, “Wife #2, don’t smile”. Obviously, she starts smiling. Again, like what? He than continues to say, “I guess if I had to choose between a wife who couldn’t not smile and a wife who couldn’t not not smile, I would choose a wife who couldn’t-“ and well I think I lost him here. Suffice to say it was ridiculous. But hey, I like my joke of a life, photoshoots and all, and I hope you like yours too.


Dear Sinds,





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