Back in September, my husband and I discovered a fabulous new hiking trail. The trail followed a little stream up a steep hill studded with yellow flowers and wild raspberries. We enjoyed our hike so much that we planned to go back the next week.
As the time for our next hike rolled around, we noticed that the sky was a little gray. The closer we got to the mountains, the darker the sky grew. Admitting defeat, my husband suggested we go to a bookstore instead of going on a hike. "Okay," I said, "but I'm not going to sign any of my books when we're there. This is only for fun." (Not that people run up to me in bookstores asking me to sign books. I just sign the books on the shelf because some people prefer their books signed.)
We spent a few minutes wandering around, perusing the aisles. Then, fatefully, I decided to take a bathroom break. Bear in mind that I'd dressed for the stormy weather. I wore several layers and apparently had a difficult time putting them all back together.
As I walked out of the restroom, the bookstore clerk pointed behind me. "You have . . . toilet paper." I looked behind me to see a thirty-foot stripe of toilet paper following me through the store. Yep, that's me, the author with toilet paper. Only, thank goodness, no one knew I was an author.
Another woman standing nearby commented, "Oh, I was wondering what that was."
I walked back through the store, gathering toilet paper as I went and depositing the entire armful in the trash on my way out of the store. To my relief, I discovered the end of the roll stuck underneath the sweater I wore around my waist . . . not somewhere else. Phew.
Needless to say, I have not been back to that bookstore. I don't trust their toilet paper.