Toilets With Green Handles

In the Oregon Convention Center the toilets have green handles. There is a sign behind the toilet with detailed instructions: move the lever up for "liquid wastes" and down for "solid wastes." We exited the bathroom at the end of the evening last night in a swirl of hilarity, worrying that if we make the wrong choice in flushing we'll here a harsh, blaring, beeping alarm [you know the one: you've heard it in movies about nuclear reactors going awry. EHHH, EHHH, EHHH.] The floor will begin to spin beneath our feet, pulling us down into a subterranean region, some dark and echoing depths.

The men's bathroom, I heard, is quite peaceful, with depictions of waterfalls behind the urinals. Just in case you have trouble getting started.

My husband and I drift through the crowd in the lobby after a series of quite wonderful, incredible performances. Songs, dances, poetry, a father and son on santur and drum, especially sweet, embracing after the performance. My sox have been knocked off. Persian couples who seem vaguely familiar come up and we converse. Everyone knows my husband, and I know no one. There is something about my brain [many things, in fact, it has transpired over the years] that makes it difficult to remember faces and names. It puts me at an awkward disadvantage, as with my red hair [plus paired with a gregarious and illustrious husband] I seem to be more memorable. Visually, anyway. So a few people were saying How are you doing? and I'm thinking Who are you? [In Arlenese, that means, "In what way did I make a fool of myself, and what stupid thing did I say, the last time we met?] I tell the husbands, "Tell him to tune his Santur, I've been waiting two years . . . " I'm never afraid of a little hyperbole. [Former husband hated that. One more nail in the coffin of our relationship.]

After twelve or more hours of human contact in public I emerge swimming in self-loathing. Every time. Multiple short interactions. Land mines of opportunities for saying something stupid. Wit involves risk-taking, and at the end of the day I am awash in self doubt. My skin feels as if it is prickling with the energy of scrutiny. It is time to go home. Advance, retreat. It is time to retreat. Sleep, recharge with prayers.

The glorious sunshine is gone this morning, replaced with a reflective, thoughtful rain.