strange things are afoot at the Circle K

Don't you hate it when you're in a public bathroom and, as you're trying to open the door with your foot, someone walks in?

I sure do.

Today I was at my favorite exit on I-65. Exit 172. It's the last Chick-fil-A if you're coming from Kentucky, but I guess it's the first if you're coming from Wisconsin. Kind of a glass-half-empty/glass-half-full kind of outlook, isn't it? I like to stop at the Circle K, because it has the cheapest gas, though not the cleanest bathroom. Life is full of decisions such as these.

This bathroom has toilets that look like they haven't been replaced since 1980, and the toilet paper is definitely one-ply and probably We-R-Cheap brand. The faucet is no longer silver, but that spotted-texture that your faucet gets when you brush your teeth and the toothpaste sprinkles the mirror and sink. Only imagine that 300 people [a day] have brushed their teeth and flung toothpaste specks all over your bathroom [for the past 30 years]. And they were all using Arm & Hammer.

These spots were definitely not toothpaste residue, however, but probably tiny spores that would grow inside my lungs if I breathed them in. And then I would mutate. Into a gas station attendant.

Of course this bathroom would have a hand blow-dryer instead of paper towels, leaving me to figure out how to open the door after I've washed my hands. I am strictly opposed to the use-your-sleeve-as-your-hand technique, because, hello, my sleeve is still attached to my body. And what if I rest my sleeve against my cheek later on, after I've forgotten I used it to open a spore-covered door handle? I may as well rub my face all over the bathroom floor.

And of course trying to pull at one-ply toilet paper with wet hands is a form of torture they implement in Pacific prison camps.

"I can't...grab...the toilet paper...it keeps...disintegrating...IT'S ALL OVER MY FINGERS...."

So the only option left is to use your foot. Right? Can we all agree that that's a sane move to make?

I had just raised my leg in a ballerina-esque pose, attempting to artfully slip my toe through the handle and pull downward using all the grace and poise of a swan craning its neck to drink from a crystal-like lake. Then the door pushed open and this girl leaned back, startled, as if I had just tried to decapitate her with my calf.
She said, "Oh!"
I said, "Sorry!"
Then I laughed awkwardly and, with dripping hands, said, "Thanks!" and ran very quickly out the door.

Maybe she didn't notice my leg in the air?

At least I didn't have to touch the door handle.