Apparently I was Wrong about the Rest Stop Serial Killer

Last night I slept at a rest area off the Interstate.

It was not the strangest part of my day.

I suppose I should start at the beginning.

Lindsey and I went to New York City to see a few plays. Not that we live close enough to make a day trip to NYC feasible. But every few months we both somehow forget this fact.

I blame a brain turned to mush after too many hours of Fruit Ninja and America’s Next Top Model.

I don’t know Lindsey’s excuse.

But if I had to offer it for her I’d say she’s too easily swayed by my vocal claims to the contrary.

Silly Lindsey, forgetting not to trust me.

It’s a four hour drive to the city from my house and we’d allotted six and a half hours just to be safe.

Yet, somehow (see: the freaking Lincoln Tunnel deciding to halve its two lanes), we ended up rushing into Manhattan running just a tad late.

Aside from my normal panic at the idea of walking into a show after the curtain rises, I was particularly worried about the bathroom.

See, I had to use one.

So we squealed into the parking garage and I speed walked to the theatre. Lindsey was trailing behind me – I think something happened to her calves.

But I’m a bit selfish and quickly put my need to pee above her leg health, nagging her along.

Finally we got inside and Lindsey took her ticket and went to sit down while I headed down toward the bathrooms. With only a few minutes left until start time I figured I’d rush in and still make it upstairs in time for the show.

I came around the corner of the stairwell only to discover a line leading out of the ladies’ room.

Huh.

At least six women were ahead of me as I took my place at the end of the line.

Simultaneously, the house lights flashed, signaling everyone to get in their seats.

Nobody left the line.

In the middle of my panic attack a woman who’d come behind me asked if they would close the theatre doors. “I hope not,” I replied.

This exchange did not make me feel better.

Finally (finally) I reached the front of the line and a stall opened up.

I rushed inside and quickly sat down, then paused for a second as I registered… wetness.

Apparently, the woman who used the stall before me hadn’t been as on top of aim as I would have hoped.

Normally this would have freaked me out but in a stroke of luck, apparently I was already as freaked out as possible.

It’s the little things that mean the most.

(In case you were wondering, I did make the beginning of the show, thanks to copious amounts of toilet paper and a late curtain. I consider it the day’s first miracle.)

Trying something new for dinner, we went to the Shake Shack, which Lindsey had heard raves about on DCist.

(Apparently we’re about to be blessed with a shack of our own.)

The burger, the fries, the milkshake – each were delicious.

Yet of the meal the thing that sticks with me the most is its resemblance to the scene in cliche teen movies where the new girl walks through the lunch room.

Nobody seats you at the Shake Shack – rather, you place your order and get your tray and do whatever necessary to grab a seat as soon as its occupants are guilted into leaving.

There’s something to be said about a restaurant that requires you to body check a middle schooler for a stool at 4:30 in the afternoon.

I’m just not sure what.

Discovery is currently showing a Harry Potter exhibition.

Thankfully Lindsey and I had the prerequisites - hours to kill and dorkishness.

And if you’ve ever wanted to spend a while staring at clothing and props from a series of movies, I highly recommend it.

Afterwards I stopped by the bathroom where I discovered I needed… a feminine product.

This need was made more urgent by my lack of underwear.

(Pause for judgment.)

But the point of this story isn’t my laundry laziness.

It’s my subsequent trip to the drug store in the middle of Times Square.

I found a shrink-wrapped package of Hanes and bought a new pair of panties**.

Because if there’s any character I like to embody, it’s the classy tourist.

After seeing Arcadia we hoofed it to the car and started for home.

Then the deluge started.

It wasn’t an overwhelming amount of rain – I could still easily see out my windshield.

But apparently drainage wasn’t a priority while constructing 95 because I started hydroplaning.

Again.

And again.

And again.

At which point I realized I was faced with two choices. I could continue driving until I eventually hydroplaned into a partition or I could pull off and wait it out at a rest area.

If the rest area sounds like the obvious choice, you haven’t considered the matter of the serial killer.

Not a specific serial killer mind you, but if there’s anything poorly made horror movies and paranoia have taught me, it’s that there’s always a serial killer around when a car is parked and occupied.

Add in the storm and the night and the woods surrounding rest areas and his arrival, knife and eye patch included, is almost guaranteed.

After I considered my advantage over Lindsey (she didn’t even consider the waiting killer), I figured I might be able to escape during her murder and choose the rest stop option.

And wouldn’t you know – no killer showed up at all.

Guess he sensed my knowledge of his arrival and decided to wait until I wasn’t expecting it.

Those serial killers

They’re all about the anticipation,

Megan

*Which won the Tony Award as I was writing this post. Beautiful, touching and, of the hundreds of shows I’ve seen in my life, by far the saddest.

**Also the aforementioned feminine product. I know you were just on the edge of your seat wondering.

Apparently I was Wrong about the Rest Stop Serial Killer

Tagged as: Embarrassment is always funny in retrospect, I *am* pretentious enough to spell it theatre, I'm just as strange in real life, I'm unnaturally fearful of serial killers, This stuff happens so often I should be used to it