Wrinkled Blondie

I was headed for the bathroom - one of those 'not-a-moment-too-soon' times - when she stepped directly in front of me. Not wanting to be rude, but definitely not wanting to waste any time, I tried to step around her. Every time I cut to her left, she moved into my path. If I switched to the right, so did she. It was as if she had eyes in the back of her blond head.

From the back she appeared to be well dressed, her hair cut in a smart page boy, her hands well manicured. I don't want to cast aspersions, but she cut a very wide berth. To boot, she leaned heavily on a cane (which by comparison resembled a toothpick about to bend in half) and half pulled one foot behind her, shuffling across the floor, never lifting the sole of her shoe high enough to let an ant pass. I could hear her heavy breathing as she navigated the hall.

I kept thinking that she would turn off down one of the side aisles so I could pass, but she kept plowing straight ahead. I could see the sign for the restrooms not twenty paces ahead. Surely I would be free of her once I reached the door of the ladies room. No such luck. She stood in front of the door, not moving, just catching her breath. There was no getting around her.

She must have thought I was following her (I apparently was) because she gave me a dirty look, then s-l-o-w-l-y pushed the door open and backed into the small anteroom. I pushed my way in as well. At last I managed to free myself of the roadblock as she took a stall. As I passed by her, I could see that she was not as young as her blond updo would lead you to believe. Her face was lined with wrinkles, and rather an ashen color. She wore no make-up, making the tiredness etched into her eyes prominent.

After my crisis was averted, I realized that she was talking out loud to herself in muted but agonizing tones. "How am I gonna get down that far? Can't believe I didn't think of my medicine. Why don't they fix this? Who's gonna take care of all this mess?" the running dialogue was punctuated with groans and moans and ow's and breath being sucked in as if every motion was excruciating.

She was definitely not doing well. At first it was a bit funny, then as the dialogue continued, it was distressing. I wondered if she were in such terrible pain why she wasn't in the hospital. I washed my hands, then pulled paper towels from the dispenser. She was still mumbling to herself. I couldn't stand to hear so much suffering.

"Is everything OK?" I asked to a locked stall door. No answer. "Do you need help?" I asked again. She just kept talking the same sort of out-of-context stuff. Suddenly the door opened and she shuffled out, tapping her cane deliberately as she advanced towards the sinks. She glared at me, her demeanor screaming that I was intruding on her privacy, washed her hands, all the while mumbling, then leaned against the wall as if she were single-handedly holding the building up.

She took a deep breath. It occurred to me that if I were going to make a decent getaway, now was the time before she headed for the door. The thought flitted through my head that she would have a hard time holding the door open and getting through it. It jerked me up short. I opened the door, and stood there holding it open until she managed to haul herself into the hallway, stood for a long two minutes adjusting her scarf, then limped into the stream of traffic, slowing it to an almost standstill by her sheer magnitude.

I stood there a few minutes more watching her, stubborn, alone, independent, angry, old, tired, in pain, insisting on her right to be there, on her right to be respected. She was an easy read. But not an easy fix. Tonight, Blondie. Tonight you get added to my prayerlist, like it or not.