Things most men won't admit

A commenter noticed that my entries have tapered off. Sorry. There's something so dark, so frightening, so utterly dismaying that I've been unable to post for a few days. It happened at the baseball game, but I was too troubled to report it. It started when I noticed an old friend from high school in the stands, Susan Bry. We chatted on the concourse where I met her 3-year-old daughter; she said there's another baby on the way.
Then I went off to use the can. Like most places, the women's restroom was on the right, the men's on the left. So I went in the left door and walked to the back. There were two rows of stalls, but no urinals. I figured they must have been in a different part. (You know where this is going). An adult was busy at the end of the row putting the pants back on a potty-trained toddler.
And no, the clues hadn't registered with me yet.
I did my business while admiring the ambiance, thinking about how upscale this brand-new Riverhawks stadium was compared to Wrigley, where males are only afforded a long trough in which to empty their used Old Style. Finally, I walked back to the sinks to wash my hands. By now I was curious to find where they hid the urinals in this classy bathroom. I walked around a likely corner and found -- wait for it -- a second exit. There were two doors to enter this bathroom -- one on the right and one on the left.
I got out fast.
I have to wonder if Susan noticed how nonchalantly I walked into the women's restroom.