The Gender Confusion Experience

I went to see The Pink Floyd Experience last night and I experienced an emotion so powerful, I laughed uncomfortably and apologize for my faux pas. Now before my embarrassment is served for your laughing pleasure, I enjoyed the concert. Being to young to have ever seen Pink Floyd, this is as close as I would get. The concert was like looking into the future. I realized that Pink Floyd will be handed down through the generations like a Mozart Opera. Five hundred years from now, a person at a casino may experience the music of Pink Floyd in concert for the first time just like I did last night. The songs were slightly different. They had their own touch but retained the original integrity of the songs.  Like a Mozart Opera, duplicating the original source would be near impossible, so each time the music is played, each performer makes the music their own. In a sense, I witnessed one generation of musical time travel.

All the introspective pondering about music traveling through time, changing with each iteration, floated through my mind as nature beckoned me to the casino floor. Among the ching, ching, ching, of slot machines I found my way to the bathroom. I am probably the least observant person on the planet. If I were in a prime time murder mystery this is how the scene would play:

Me: Oh my god!

Detective: What kind of sick bastard decapitates a reverend?

Me: He was a priest?

Detective: Did you find anything in his office?

Me: There was some pound cake on his… wait a minute…

Once I arrived at the bathroom through the dizzying casino, I boldly ventured forth to relieve myself. A lot can happen in five seconds. Luckily my brain functions like a circus monkey, on a unicycle, juggling cigars. People started to yell, but like any well accustomed urban dweller, I tuned them out. Who knows what they were yelling at? Only later did I realize that they were yelling, “This is the women’s bathroom!” As a man, the proper bathroom protocol is don’t look at other men, and don’t talk to them. Men’s bathrooms are very solemn affairs.  When the protocol is broken, it’s like the tranquility of a zen garden is sullied. Even if two men talk about especially manly things, like how wasted they got last night, the other men feel the “disturbance in the force.”

Not taking my first clue, I went forward. There was something odd about this bathroom, aside from the fact that people were yelling. The first thing I noticed, there were no urinals, only stalls. An odd choice but not completely uncommon. I moved forward past the rows of sinks, I was steps away from the stalls when I finally noticed the second odd thing about this bathroom. There was a woman staring at me. Of course like any great embarrassing moment, I thought, “What’s a woman doing in the men’s bathroom?”

The monkey juggled knives. My follow up thought was, “Oh, it’s a unisex bathroom, that’s really progressive.” I took two more steps forward and everything became perfectly clear. The yelling, the women staring at me, the lack of urinals, I was in the women’s bathroom! Like any great epiphany, I finally understood that there was not something wrong with the world. There was something wrong with me! I cut the building tension of my presence, with an “Opps.” Fortunately the simplest way to rectify this moment was to reverse coarse. The yelling subdued into laughter as my walk of shame and learning began. The moral of the story being, I should wear a kilt every time I go out, so in case this happens again, my confusion will be natural.

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