As we grow older...

Assignment from Writing Prompts:  The closing time has come in the mall, and you are stuck inside a toilet stall in the mall's restroom.



Fine week, this has turned out to be.  As if  crow's feet and gray hair aren't enough, my adolescent-looking, family nurse practitioner had the audacity to utter the words, "as we get older..." as an explanation for why I've been branded with the new diagnosis of hypertension.  She nonchalantly placed me on hydrocholorothaizide, HCTZ, this seemingly innocent, little, pink pill that is ruining my life.  She warned that it was a water pill and that frequent urination should be expected.  Water is exactly what I'm avoiding.  How I am supposed to offer customer service from the bathroom stall?  Why did I accept employment in a mall office without a bathroom?  Isn't this some OSHA violation?  My supervisor is 20 years my junior.  Is he counting my bathroom trips?  Will he see me as a tired, worn out, old woman?  So much for my sales pitch during our interview about the merits of hiring a stable, responsible individual.  How was I to know? 



  This snooty, little FNP, the one I surrendered my hard earned money to, also castigated my BMI of 35 and strongly suggested that I eat less and exercise more.  Yea right, I'll get right on that.  Shall I do that before I take the grandchildren to school, or after I check on my parents?  The joys of the sandwich generation.  My 30 minute break at the food court is the only thing I do for me.  Oh well, tomorrow is another day.  I'll just hike to the mall bathroom and count this is exercise.  Bathroom trip number 12 for the day.  I'm thankful I made it.  Oh, no.  Oh no.  Why did I choose the stall with the bent latch.  I knew this would happen.  It won't open.  I can't get out.  Help me!  Where is security?  When will he back around?  He's likely in the arcade room, encouraging the teenagers to wrap it up and make their way home.  What can I do?  Take a deep breath, don't panic.  I survived divorce, teenagers, unemployment.  I'll be O.K.  Will I fit beneath the stall? Can my size 16 get down on this nasty floor and wriggle my way to freedom?  I could fit in that two foot space above the stall.  Can I stand on the john and throw my leg over?  Uhhh, not the best of days for a snug skirt.  Will the toilet paper holder support me?  Oh, no, this isn't like saddling up.  I'll never get my fat leg up there.  I'm no spider woman.  Hello, out there!  Can you hear me?  Help me!!