Springfield, MO

"What are the odds?"
She stares up at me, pausing long enough to create a part from her wrinkled pursed lips and squint her right eye towards me while pushing up her over sized bifocals.

Let's back up.

I'm in the middle of Kansas. I've been driving for four hours eating nothing but the left over quarter package of Ritz Crackers and four bottles of water. Hydration is important. The inevitable is upon me- it's time. I haven't had the best luck with rest stops. Lately when I'm getting a bit stir crazy, finding myself pushing my knees together and eyes restlessly staring into a mirage of blue signs sporting rest stop mileage countdowns, they've never been a moment soon enough. To be fair, I am a bit too comfortable pulling over whenever the moment strikes to assure I can hit all the high notes in my itunes mix without worrying about excessive abdominal pressure. I'm not a patient woman. I do not fear cornfields.

But dear Kansas, sweet, sweet Kansas, serves in one's favor despite driving for such a while seeing nothing but dismantled houses and weather worn barns. Rest stops a plenty.

I pull off of the interstate, hide all valuables (read: Abe Lincoln mug, six pack of Boulevard, Groucho Marx figurine), and walk down the newly visible sidewalk towards the women's room. It's officially spring time in Kansas and if I weren't walking sideways with my legs crossed towards the restroom, I might appreciate the lack of ice a bit more.

As predicted upon seeing nothing but semi trailers in the lot, the women's room is completely empty. I enter the first stall and immediately start dreaming notes of Lady Gaga proportion that I'll soon be belting worry and judgement free in the confines of the van.

Mid-chorus I hear it. The door restroom opens. As is instinct, I pat my pocket to assure my bite-size pocket knife is where I'd last left it. The door lingers before slamming closed and rubber squeaks across the floor. From underneath the stall I see the wheels turn in my direction.

I yank up my drawers, press the already censored flush-o-matic, and open the door.

"What are the odds?"
She stares up at me. Hands gripped on the wheels on either side of her as she clears her throat.
"I mean, wow, I usually don't- but- really? A handicap? Kansas, huh?"
I know immediately I'm not saying anything right. I should have stayed for the continental breakfast this morning. I should have added that Emergen-C to my water. I should have shut up and left.
I take a deep breath and shrug at her with a meek smile, and walk over to the sink staring immediately into the mirror over my shoulder where she is lingering hesitantly before entering the only handi-capable stall I had just exited. Her mind is clearly caught between lecturing me and putting effort towards moving herself onto the porcelain throne waiting for her.

I brush my hands on my jeans and take off towards the exit. Seriously though, what are the odds?