Private event

I’ve been walking recently. I’m kind of proud of myself.  When the weather holds, I’ve been hitting the trails for 2 or 3 miles of not-very-strenuous walking, twice a day. I work up a gentle sweat–nothing so awful that I can’t be seen in public–and traipse around the lake, usually listening to an audio book or, sometimes, just enjoying the weather and counting the turtles.

We are lucky to live in Reston, of all places in Virginia, with its well-maintained public trails, and its strong sense of civic pride. But I don’t want to sound like an advertisement for the 4th of July. My legs are slowly getting exercise.

The only real problem with the walking trails is the lack of bathrooms. On the 2 1/2 mile “Blue Trail” you’re seldom more than 25 yards away from a house.  There is really nowhere to squat if that’s what you need to do. Lake Anne Park, with its handball court, and its big rectangle of sand laid out for beach volleyball fanatics, has the only public bathroom facilities on the entire jaunt. But not today.

Today, I was informed, by an all-cotton yuppie in her sassy polka-dot dress, as she jostled her screeching three-year old against her hip, “this is a private party” as I tried the handle to the bathroom.

Yeah. Private party. Public bathroom. At least that’s what my idea of “public park” has always been. They had mylar balloons and ugly plastic birthday tablecloths. Also a keg.

I wanted to crap right there on their private birthday cake. I refrained from having a whiz in the fountain, as the bathroom door was clearly locked, and after about 5 minutes of nobody exiting the john, I decided to continue on my walk.

Eventually it got dark enough (around 8:15 or so) that I could angle off into a stand of hickory trees and pee.

I’m still seething at the vulgar sense of ownership that some people seem to have. I’m not even that *ugly*. I could see, maybe, if I were a hobo, or dressed like Clarabelle the clown, that someone would be reticent to allow someone into a bathroom. but I was neither. Just a guy, walking, who had to pee. Maybe my pee just ain’t good enough for some folks.

Grr. I had to have a private event behind a public bush.

If I weren’t probably covered in poison ivy from being forced to use the Reston shrubbery, I’d probably moon ’em all.

And boy, were you surprised when you thought I’d have something interesting to say this fine Saturday, didn’t ya!


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