Why I'm glad I have a cell phone. ( a mostly true, somewhat tall tale)

Some people might tell you that cell phones can save you from being attacked by a charmingly handsome man when your car breaks down in the middle of the night and you are in the middle of nowhere and it’s snowing. Maybe. But I have a hard time believing my cell phone would get a signal in the barren wilderness during a blustering snowstorm in whiteout conditions. Really, my cell phone saves me from having to wait until I get home to call my best friend or my sister or my husband. It allows me to be reachable at all times and it allows me to concentrate less on driving and more on talking on snowy, slippery days when I feel the need to call Rachel to tell her how crappy the driving conditions are and that I might have just died if I hadn’t swerved across four lanes of traffic to avoid a patch of black ice.

Until Saturday, I had never really been in a dire emergency situation where the cell phone was necessary and would be a tool to help me avoid emotional distress. The afternoon had been stressful enough. Bridesmaid dress shopping with my sister, the bride and her friend Jonelle, one of the bridesmaids, doesn’t sound painful. And, it wasn’t all bad. But, it’s never fun to try on dresses in a size 12 when you’re a size 2 and to stand there, in the dressing room, before a wall of mirrors and in front of Amy and Jonelle in nothing but an old bra, a thong (oops) and a really big dress that makes it look like I am playing dress up. I was also wearing knee socks and pigtails, which perpetuated the playing dress up image. Anyway, I was laughed at. Uncontrollably. But, we picked a dress, I changed back into the clothes I arrived in and headed off to the bathroom.

The bathroom at Nolte’s is charming. I thoroughly enjoyed my time within its fragranced walls and was impressed with the Victoria’s Secret lotion awaiting my dry hands. I slathered it on, drinking in its scent and then proceeded to attempt to exit the facility. Only, my hands were really slippery and the doorknob wouldn’t turn. I was locked in and at first, I panicked a little. The once shabby chic, flowery bathroom became four walls that were holding me captive and no matter how hard I tried, the door would not open and I was sweating and my hand was sliding all over the door knob and I was about to begin banging on the door yelling, “I’m locked in, I’m stuck, help,” but then I remembered my cell phone.

Thankful to discover I got a signal in the restroom, I called Amy who at the time was speaking to the salesperson, and I was a bit hysterical when I told her that I was, in fact, locked in the bathroom. She hung up before I got the words out of my mouth and before I knew it, everyone had rushed over — Amy, Jonelle, the salesgirl — and they were yelling at me from the other side of the door. They kept saying that I needed to turn the door knob very hard to the left, which would have ben easy if I wasn’t all lotion-handed. After a few miserable attempts and my hand sliding all over the place, Amy got me out. I was a bit shaken, but it could have been worse. I could have been trapped in a tiny elevator in Israel with nine other people like my brother was, but that's another story.

On my drive home, I called everyone to tell them about getting locked in the bathroom at Nolte’s and about how freaky it was and I did all this, of course, while driving with one hand and one ear and half a brain and while switching lanes like a bandit.