My Mind Is Occupied

Last night, at dinner with friends, I excused myself to use the restroom. There were two unisex ones to choose from, and I hesitated: I've become a little traumatized over the past few years, because for whatever reason, I have terrible luck with restrooms. More often than you can possibly imagine, I open the door to find someone inside. I mean, has it ever occured to you not to lock the door? I'm not just talking about the rickety ones where the lock is in the doorknob; I'm talking about hook-and-eye locks, bolt locks, you name it. This happens to me all the time, and not just in restaurants—as Adam can testify, it happens with mystifying regularity on airplanes (even back when the light wouldn't go on unless you locked the door). Anyway, I chose badly: A man was inside. At least he had the decency to apologize. Most of the time, the person inside acts shocked by my boorish depravity, and I'm left backing away, as if I've done something wrong.