For about ten years now, Katharyn, Lori, and I have met for a girls’ weekend. Beach condos, New York City hotels, and even our homes have all played host to our once-a-year estrogen-charged escapes.
This year, we chose Kansas City for our latest installment. We arrived late Thursday night to discover our lovely suite overlooked the Country Club Plaza, yes; my expectations and excitement were brimming. The only thing I anticipated more than the shopping was the emptying of my brimming bladder; yes, it had been a long drive.
After checking in, I raced into our hotel bathroom and quickly shut the door. Well, I tried to shut the door. Something had lodged beneath it and the door was jammed. I reached down to dislodge the assumed washcloth, grasped a wad of fabric in my fist—and screamed. Katharyn and Lori rushed to the scene for a “sight” inspection. I knew for certain when Katharyn yelled, “Gross!” and Lori groaned. I held an anonymous pair of men’s underwear in my hand. We all marched from the restroom to the phone. I pressed zero and connected with the young man at the front desk.
