With my ever so glamorous job, I am required to travel from time to time. Unfortunately, my travel isn’t to tropical places like Belize or The Bahamas (or any location where The Bachelor goes to find true love).
My trips take me to lovely places in the Midwest, where the corn is plentiful and everything smells like manure, including my hotel room. How does that happen?
Since I demand only the best when it comes to my hotel stay, and because the woman with my company who books the hotels is a little afraid of me, I always like to stay at nice places that have the finest of amenities…and by amenities, I mean room service.
I’m currently out of town for work, and when I arrived at the hotel, I was greeted by the clerk with a generous hello and a piping hot cookie. I’m not sure if the cookie was complimentary to all guests. My guess is that it wasn’t because the clerk was holding it in her hand when I arrived, so I suspect it may have been her lunch. It was delicious!
I headed up to my room, inhaling the cookie as I went. I didn’t want to be rude and not eat the entire thing.
When I arrived at my room I opened the door and discovered the room was large and spacious…and handicap accessible. Um, seriously? Now I wouldn’t be so concerned with the handicapped room if I hadn’t just stayed in one.
Less than 2 weeks ago I was out of town and that hotel room was also handicapped. Well, I guess it was handicap accessible. The room itself wasn’t handicapped, although it didn’t have a minibar, so I consider that a handicap.
Was the woman at my company who booked my rooms trying to tell me something?
She’d met me before, so she knew I was capable of getting around without too much difficulty, assuming I wore my orthopedic shoes. So why the handicapped room?
And then I saw the bathroom, and didn’t care why. There was a huge walk in shower! Perhaps others would be offended by regularly being assigned the handicapped room, but I like to consider it an elite status that few can attain.
It’s like getting the penthouse suite, assuming the penthouse has an entrance ramp, double wide doorways and safety mats in the shower.
And let’s face it, for those of you that know me, you know having a cord in the shower that I can pull when I slip on the soap may be a good idea after all.
Of course, the maintenance man who has to answer that call and find my naked body sprawled on the floor would probably strongly disagree.
Perhaps the handicapped room was having an effect on me, and it made me grateful for the things I have, even if they are thighs covered in layers of bacon grease and onion rings.
Not literally, although that would be awesome.
After my short workout, I returned to my room, sweaty and worn out. I had a meeting with a client so I needed to get in the shower and get ready to go.
I removed my sweaty clothes and walked into the bathroom wearing nothing but the sweat from the workout and my disdain for the elliptical machine.
I reached over and turned on the shower, and nothing happened. The shower didn’t turn on. It remained a steady stream of water from the faucet, with no water coming out of the shower head.
Seriously?! Did the hotel think people in the handicapped room didn’t need to shower?
I was immediately irritated and questioned why I bothered to work out in the first place. That’s what I get for trying to be healthy. Had I laid in bed and watched TV, this wouldn’t have been such a catastrophe.
However, the fact that I worked out on the elliptical machine and was dripping with sweat, and the faint odor of garlic, I knew a shower was a must…at least if I wanted to keep working with this specific client
I walked to the phone, mentally drafting my lawsuit against the hotel for violation of the ADA. How dare they discriminate against me?
I called the front desk and told them my shower was broken. The woman at the front desk (who was probably still bitter about the cookie incident), advised she would send someone right up. Frickety frick. That meant I needed to get dressed. This hotel was really getting on my nerves.
I threw on some clothes and a disgruntled maintenance man, who I promptly named Donald, arrived at my door.
He was a bit shocked when my able body opened the door, as I suspected he expected to see a handicapped person utilizing the room. He then gave me a judging stare and entered my palatial room.
The maintenance guy went straight to the bathroom and got to work. I returned to the other room and continued to stew in my own filth and sweat.
As I sat there waiting for him to fix the faucet, I heard heavy breathing coming from the bathroom.
What was that guy doing in there? Was he okay? Did he need CPR? I hoped not, as my only experience with that was the plastic doll I used during my CPR certification class.
I named him Eddie. (The CPR doll…not the maintenance man. I named the maintenance man Donald, despite his nametag that said his name was Ron.)
Was Donald okay in there? I thought about asking, but figured he might start a conversation with me about his various ailments (as most strangers tend to do), so I decided to Google “CPR on the maintenance man” and keep quiet.
That way I would be prepared. I was also a bit disturbed, as my search came up with some interesting results.
As I waited for Donald to finish his work, or breathe his last breath, I decided to call my client and tell her I’d be late. Fortunately, she is cool, and knows me well enough to know that some sort of disaster would inevitably occur to make me late.
This time it was due to a combination of my own body odor and the maintenance man’s impending heart attack. Surely she would think one of the conditions caused the other, but which one caused which was still up for debate.
After he left my room, I disrobed and once again turned on the shower. This time, it worked, and I silently thanked Donald for his hard work (and mentally made a note to recommend he see a pulmonologist).
The shower never felt so good, and I got ready without any further difficulties.
Although the broken shower was less than ideal, I’m still cool with the handicapped room.
That could have happened in any room, and I’m not going to judge all handicap rooms by this one room. After all, if history is any indicator, I will be staying in another one next week for yet another business trip.