A Word About Rest Stops

On our trip to the burning region of New York state, T and I stopped at a rest stop in Pennsylvania.  It was a vending machine wonderland and outside the bathrooms at least one man was seated on the lawn drinking a beer before he got back on the road.

Ahem.

The bathroom was a pink tile affair with a half dozen stalls and a long line. It smelled like a rest stop, which is to say, it wasn’t all that fresh.  When our transaction had been completed, I was eager to leave while T stopped to wash her hands.

I commend her commitment to hygiene but in all honesty, washing hands in that place was just a no.  I’m a woman with the immune system of an experienced teacher and can therefore afford to be around germs but I drew the line at that reststop and exited with haste.  When T and her wet hands emerged I suggested that the hand washing in that place was worse than just going without.  She wiped her damp hands on my shirt and agreed with me.

Thanks, honey.