W.W.M.D.?

I woke up on Saturday to find no one home. With three roommates, it just doesn’t happen that often. Someone is almost always passing by, or on her way out or in.

So, to celebrate having my beloved-yet-cramped New York apartment all to myself, I left my bed head the way it was and I dragged myself out of my room to the kitchen where I made pancakes and ate very quietly as to enjoy the full depth of the experience.

I sank deeper into the sofa; I listened to the birds chirping (well actually they were pigeons, and I think they were making so much noise because they had gotten stuck in the air shaft, but this is inconsequential to the end of this blog.)

I could do anything I wanted — as long as I didn’t leave the apartment. I had staked my claim on the place, and for a few hours, I was determined it was going to be mine, and mine alone.

Should I do yoga, or clean my room? Watch a movie, or lie around and read for hours? The possibilities were running through my head as I walked into the bathroom, slammed the door, and like one of those slow-motion movie scenes, went straight for the door handle and realized I was stuck. In the bathroom. With no one home.

Not only has our bathroom door been painted and repainted so many times that it sticks shut, but last week the inside knob somehow became disconnected to the whole apparatus, and it was locking my roommates in like prisoners in solitary.

While we waited for the super to fix it, the temporary solution was to leave the door ajar while we were, ehem, in there. But this time I found myself stuck, and completely alone.

The heat in that tiny room made it feel as if the walls were closing in. So I opened the window and sat on the handy chair provided for me, complete with the frilly seat cover.

I began to think: What Would MacGyver Do?

I grabbed a hairpin out of the medicine cabinet and began to pick the lock. Nothing. Right about now I was kicking myself for not paying more attention to the MacGyver episodes my ex used to watch.

I pounded the door with frustration. Not only was I stuck, but my few precious hours of alone time were ruined.

I thought about climbing out the tiny window. But I live on the fifth floor, and concluded the chance of hurling to the ground was too great to plot escape.

I started to pick at the lock again with a decorative seashell. Still nothing.

After almost an hour, I decided the only thing that was going to get me out was either to scream like a little girl or kick the door until it broke. I did both.

The screaming got a concerned neighbor to come to the front door, only to realize she didn’t have a spare key to our apartment. So while she stood there, helpless in the hallway, I kicked the door until it split clean down the middle.

Soon after that my roommates came home. I went to my room and took a nap.

Richard Dean Anderson, I salute you.