Many years ago, my husband, Dave, and I went on a road trip. We stopped in a small town to get gas and use the restrooms.
The door to the woman’s bathroom didn’t shut all the way, so I slammed it shut (didn’t want someone to walk in on me). Afterward, I tried to leave, but the door was stuck. No amount of pushing made it budge.
I called out for help and a few minutes later the gas station attendant said, “Slip five dollars under the door and I’ll let you out.”
I was already furious for being locked in a bathroom, but that comment set me off. I don’t remember what I said, but it for sure wasn’t kind. Dave told the attendant to let me out or he would tear the door off its hinges. The attendant tried, but to no avail. Dave took a screwdriver out of our car and managed to pry it open. I exploded out of that room so fast, both Dave and the attendant had to scramble backward or risk being punched or run over. I think my glare at the attendant was severe enough for him to feel Death blow its cold breath on his neck. At least that’s what his shocked and suddenly pale face told me.
We were going to stop to eat in that small town, but I was so pissed that I didn’t want even to eat there. I told Dave to drive as fast as he could to get me as far away as soon as possible.
I learned an interesting fact about myself that day: I don’t like being forced to stay somewhere, however temporary.
That sensation appeared again after my son, Tom was born. Since I had a C-section, the hospital required I that stay for three days. We had a lovely, large room with a comfortable bed, but after less than a day, I begged every doctor and nurse that entered my room to let me go home. After another 24 hours, they finally let me go. I think they got tired of me asking.
I would never make a good prisoner. Sure, I sometimes don’t leave my house for days and it’s not an issue. That’s because I choose to stay. Tell me I can’t leave, and I get a bit cranky (to put it mildly).
That’s why enduring all these new rules (even if they are temporary) is so difficult for me. I’m still being imprisoned against my will.
One thing’s for sure. No one has to worry about me committing a crime that may result in jail or prison. I wouldn’t survive long in either.
2 thoughts on “Not A Model Prisoner”
Andra, it appears to me, based on the recent increase in the number of blogs you have written, that you need to take a pen and paper or a fully charged notebook where ever you go, because writing appears to be the cure God Blessed you with for imprisonment against your will. Your most recent Blog made me laugh… particularly the statement, “or risk being punched or run over”! So, I think I can safely say, “your writings are also a cure for that which ails me!” Keep on blogging!
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Thanks, Arnie! I’m glad I could make you laugh. And writing is definitely my go-to cure. I’m not posting every entry I’ve written either. I don’t want to overwhelm my readers by posting every day or multiple times a day.