The Bathroom

It's the great equalizer. Ever notice that? That we all go in, cram ourselves into this tiny little box, and, to some extent, have private time with our private parts. Odd, yes? What will people say of this custom in a thousand years? That people who don't even know each other's names, will never ask and will never see them again, share a little room, with only a pit (and where does that go?) covered in this mysterious blue cleaner, a sink fit for a squirrel and a mirror that only children would use because they don't know better. I mean, really. Does anyone look rested and relaxed and happy in that mirror? The answer is no. You always look terrible. Haggard, with static-y hair and runny mascara (though you'd just fixed that river of black two minutes ago).

And you manage to free yourself from this little box you electively entered, and then you have to excuse yourself past five people too big to be standing in the aisle and graze your private parts (again mentioned) against their legs or stomachs or (sorry) private parts. Why is this? Why do we enter into this game?

Ellie, earning her keep.

Men with starched shirts, women with knitting needles. Boys growing silver, pulsating earbuds out of their heads and little girls with light-up shoes. They all ache to get into that little box, invade all kinds of personal space getting to it and away from and then contemplate, after enough V8, Diet Coke or apple juice to DO IT AGAIN.

In case of a water landing, Ellie is prepared.

The airplane's bathroom. We are reduced to our faculties and our most humble of needs when using this ridiculous contraption. And then using it with a toddler. I will never mention how much entertainment we can generate in a tiny little box with a sink, pop down counter and soap.