I went to this hip and happenin coffee shop on 15th in Capitol Hill last Sunday to do some reading and use some Chai to help soothe my cold Seattle hands and feet. The place was packed. There were Americanos with Americanos (no room, two spledas) all over the joint. People were reading and mingling and doing what normal Seattle-ites do when the weather sucks.

And really there wasn’t anything that exciting until….I had to pee. I went up to the register and grabbed the bathroom key and headed for the ol powder room. To my surprise, there were two bathrooms, and I glanced down to the key to make sure that I had grabbed the “girls” key.  But my key was hooked to a plastic spatula with no label. I realized that there was a “spatula” bathroom, indicated by the picture on the door, which linked to the key in my hand. There was also another bathroom designated by some other random kitchen utensil (I didn’t pay enough attention to remember what specifically). But there it was. The bathrooms were defined by the key that opened the door, rather than by the limitations of girl, boy, man, woman etc.

I found this moment to be beautiful.

I sat my white little toosh down on that cold porcelain seat and peed with profound enjoyment that I was not limited by my gender. I have developed a pattern lately of going into Starbucks’ men’s bathrooms (because I know they are all one-person-lock-the-door type situations). Even if the women’s bathroom is open, I march my way into the men’s bathroom and enjoy the benefit of entering a space that I am denied because of my gender. I don’t do this because men’s bathrooms are particualrly enjoyable places to be (in fact, they tend to be the opposite….aiming is apparently a rare talent these days)…I do it because it symbolizes a rebellion for me. A way to step beyond the social constructs that ask me to “submit”, “separate”, or dumb down my strength according to someone else’s idea of who I should be, and where I should be allowed to go.

And it got me to thinking. What other spaces inside myself, and outside of myself have I been hesitant to explore because I have been instructed against it? (Maybe it’s anger, or my love for racing (and winning), or maybe it is my strength to speak boldly and risk being labeled a bitch, or to be sensuous and risk being called a whore….

Well, I guess for now…I feel good about peeing where I’m not supposed to, but I can already tell….this rebellion is lovely and it makes me feel alive, and I think it is going to go far beyond the stall….