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It’s not a secret how much I like taking my pants off, though I do have SOME limits. There are a few places that I refuse to take my pants off like public restrooms, my grandmother’s house, or on a date with a total douchebag.

Yesterday, flying home from Chicago, I was forced to take my pants off in a dirty airport bathroom.

Before my flight home boarded I made a quick trip to the bathroom because I’m allergic to gross and nothing is grosser than airplane bathrooms. Right before I exited the stall I noticed my underwear on backwards. That’s the danger of boy short style undies and being in a rush to make a flight. I thought I’d be able to easily take off my pants and fix my undies, but just as I was about to drop my jeans I noticed liquid on the floor. Not wanting to risk the “is this pee or water” game I stepped onto the toilet seat to take care of business. Trying to maneuver a slippery plastic “let’s prevent toilet herpes” covered toilet seat with my pants half off in flip flops was not a good idea. Seeing that my foot was dangerously close to the germy toilet water I hopped off the toilet seat as fast as possible. In the process my left flip flop flew off my foot and under the next stall which, of course, wasn’t empty.

I froze.

There was no way I was going to walk out without a shoe. Um, germs much? No way. I’d rather die in a stall than walk barefooted on that floor. I had no idea what to do. I didn’t have my phone with me so I couldn’t send an emergency SOS text message to Summer, who was waiting for me in the terminal. Just as I was about to have a complete meltdown a perfectly manicured hand reached under my stall and handed me my shoe. Without saying a word. Not one. No laughing, nothing.

I’m convinced it was the hand of God. And people, it’s my job to tell you that God is a woman. With hooker red nails.