Improbably, I broke my right leg after the last lacrosse game of the season. It was embarrassing mainly because it snapped as I tried doing a victory cartwheel, clumsily slipping on the dewy grass and nearly breaking my tibula in half. After that, it was crutches for me. My biggest complaint with my injury was not the pain, which was mostly a dull ache, as present as a shadow, but the lack of room. Areas that had once seemed large now left me immobile, trying to balance on one foot while shifting my crutches and backpack awkwardly around. Nowhere was this more obvious than in the bathroom, because the fact of the matter is, bathroom stalls are tiny.
About a week after my accident, I limped my way into a lavatory only to find the handicapped stall occupied and the other two stalls hanging open. Some selfish child had taken the big stall when the other two were perfectly available. It had been a long and unpleasant day, so I felt the need to voice my complaint.
“Some people,” I said aloud, “only think of themselves. It has got to be my biggest pet peeve when some jerk with a full range of movement takes the big stall just for the fun of it. I hate that with a burning passion.”
The stall door opened and a wheelchair rolled out. “Yeah, man,” said the occupant. “I hate that too.”