The thing about El Taco Veloz, one of the most kickass taco places in Denver and probably the world, is that though they have some of the most kickass tacos known to mankind, they also have a not so kickass restroom setup.
It’s not as bad as the one in my favorite Starbucks around the corner from my apartment. The one that has the automatic light that seems to always turn off right in the middle of doing your thing. Or automatic flusher that has a mind of its own. Or the automatic sink that makes you perform a song and dance number in order for it to work. (Note to all establishments: automatic is not always the best way. Just Saying.)
But, El Taco Veloz does only have one toilet for both men and women which is kind of a major drawback.
And apparently, a very unreliable lock.
Y’all, I had to go. I couldn’t wait. Two #2’s (pun intended) with extra hot sauce and it was time to make a very necessary trip.
Against probably my better judgement, I rushed into the shady bathroom. The first thing I noticed was that there weren’t any seat covers (gross-level 10) and decided that the countless wall sits during JV track practice had prepared me well for this very moment.
So I did what many women have done before me and many will continue to do long after I am gone…I squatted. That’s right.
And it was during that not-so-lady-like hover above the El Taco Veloz toilet that I heard a knock at the door.
Seeing that I was midstream and knowing full well that I did indeed twist the little button on the knob, I knew I didn’t really need to say anything because the door would not open for the person on the other end.
And of course, it was at that very moment, mid-hover, that the door flew open and a kind-looking, middle-aged gentleman, with wisdom and shock etched into his face, walked in.
“Whoops! So sorry!” were the exact words that came out of my mouth as I gave up my hover and planted my bare buns on the taco toilet seat in an effort to recover any amount of pride I had left.
I had just apologized to the man that walked in on me mid-stream.
As I walked out of the restroom, once the dust had settled, and the man had repeatedly told me, “I didn’t see anything! I’m so sorry. I swear I didn’t see anything!” (which only reassured in my mind that he did, in fact, see something) I wondered why my initial reaction was to apologize.
And why my initial reaction in ANY situation, is ALWAYS to apologize.
In this instance, I suppose it was okay. I should’ve said something when he knocked. So I’ll let myself slide on this one.
But the other day, I apologized to my couch because I accidentally ran into it.
The thing is, I’m always saying sorry.
I’m the first to apologize in an argument even if I’m not the one at fault.
I’m always the first to concede…even to my own problems.
I could be crying from the worry and stress of a new job (and just the overwhelming weight of life sometimes) and then tell the person comforting me, usually my sister, or best friends, or mom, that I’m sorry that I’m sad.
And being the sage that they all are, they’ll tell me, “Don’t be sorry for how you feel.”
Because that’s exactly what I do. I feel sorry for feeling.
For being upset or hurt or worried or scared or even proud.
And that’s just ludicrous, I tell you! Ludicrous! (Not the rapper.)
So I’m done.
I’m done saying sorry for feeling the way I feel.
For conceding when and where I don’t have to.
There’s a reason I have those feelings and they shouldn’t just be “sorry’d” away.
Instead of being sorry, I’m going to start being sure.
Sure of my abilities. Sure of my gut instinct. Sure of my purpose.
Just sure of myself.
I’m going to stop sorrying away my problems, but instead face them.
DO something about them.
And maybe next time I’ll double-check the lock on the bathroom door.