I’ve lived long enough to know how the world works, or so I thought. I’m a mid-twentieth-century guy bouncing my way within the twenty-first, growing in comfort with change. Gas stations, airports, restaurants, all with familiar signage pointing the way: “Restrooms this way.” Then comes the comforting choice, M for Men, F for Female. Simple. Predictable. Safe.
But yesterday, the universe shifted.
After a memorial service at a beautiful new Unitarian church, nature called. I asked my daughter where the restrooms were. She pointed, I walked, and there it was: a big bold sign, “All-Gender Restroom.”
I froze. My mind raced. Do I go in? I looked around for backup signage. None. I even asked a man nearby for confirmation, as if I were crossing international borders. For a fleeting moment, I considered just holding it, until I remembered that at seventy-one, such decisions have consequences.
So, I took a deep breath and stepped in. To my surprise, no lightning bolts, no police. Just modern sinks, fancy towel dispensers, and a series of fully enclosed stalls, like tiny private bathrooms lined up in a row. Harmless. Functional. Even kind of nice.
Later, while waiting for our daughter, I told my wife about my confusion. She laughed—hard—dropping her hands saying, “We’ve had an all-gender bathroom at home for fifty years.”
I had to laugh too. Turns out, the real challenge of change isn’t the change itself, it’s realizing that the world may have moved ahead while I was still looking for the old signs.
Reflection
When was the last time something new threw you off balance only to discover it wasn’t scary at all, just unfamiliar?