Every now and again something so absurd happens, you feel like you’re in a “Saturday Night Live” comedy skit.
A couple of weeks ago, more than 400 women got together for lunch. Obviously, greater minds than mine masterminded the event. I can’t manage to get more than three of my friends together for lunch on even a good day.
So, there I was in Columbia, ready for the event at Seawell’s on Rosewood. The dining room was elegantly set for a lot of women – and it looked gorgeous. (I and other women from Dorchester County were there at the invitation of Rep. Jenny Horne. I was proud to note that Dorchester County has three of the 17 women representatives in the state: Rep. Horne, Rep. Annette Young and Rep. Patsy Knight. I was sad to learn that South Carolina is the only state in the union that has no female senators.)
As women began to arrive, it was a gabfest. So much so that the folks at the podium tried unsuccessfully to get the crowd seated for some minutes – and even then we had a hard time keeping quiet. Women have lots to say to each other. It was great. I even ran into my sister-in-law who was attending from Clarendon County.
Before the lunch actually was served, I decided a quick trip to the ladies room was in order. Another woman followed me in. As we entered, we encountered a group of four women, all dressed alike. Performers. That was obvious. I figured they were doing a hair and makeup check before their act took to the stage.
I slipped into the first stall and the woman behind me went into the second one. I hung my camera and purse on the door hook. I could hear the lady next to me taking care of her possessions.
And then, as I was just about in mid-sit. I heard a sound I had never heard before in a restroom.
A pitch pipe. You know – the little musical device to get the chorus in key.
The sound was immediately followed by the opening strains of the National Anthem.
Well, I wasn’t real sure what to do at that point. I can honestly say I’ve never taken care of business accompanied by a four-part harmony singing of “The Star Spangled Banner.”
I wondered what the woman next door to me was going to do, but there was not a sound coming from the other side of the wall.
To pee, or not to pee, that was the question.
So there I crouched, truly perplexed about the proper etiquette for a restroom rendition of our national anthem.
The song went on forever. By the time the bombs were bursting in air, I was fit to be tied.
The singers finally finished and promptly left the room.
There was immediate action in my stall and the one next to me.
As I and the lady in the adjacent cubicle met up at the mirror, we busied ourselves washing hands, and then we both looked into the mirror at the same time, made eye contact, and cracked up.
“I didn’t know what to do,” she choked out between fits of laughter.
“Neither did I,” I confessed. We returned to the dining room and resumed our seats. I could see her several tables in front of me.
The incident was all but forgotten until the woman at the podium asked us all to stand for the singing of the National Anthem. I looked toward my former partner in confusion and could see her shoulders shaking. I nearly choked on my sweet tea. I think some of the people at my table thought I was crying at the emotion of the moment.
And most of the time that might have been the case.
I’ll never hear the National Anthem the same way again.