I have often been told I lack awareness. Not awareness of self (of that I have never been accused), but moreover the kind that often sees me (allegedly!) cut people off in traffic, merge when I’m supposed to yield, butt in to a grocery line, and walk into the men’s bathroom. (Of which I have been guilty, sadly, on more than one occasion, once to the inexplicable stirring applause of the bathroom’s occupants.)
I wouldn’t classify myself as an overtly rude individual, so that leaves me to believe that I am simply not aware of my surroundings. Like a mathematical theorem, this was recently proven to be so. 
I signed up my 22-month old son and I to a weekly Gym n’ Swim class at the Shawnessy YMCA. Having never been there before, I was given the code to the “special” family change room. Not sure what made it special, other than a playpen (for obvious toddler wrangling), and a change-table station.
Quickly changing my son into his swim trunks, I readied my carefully chosen tankini, and started to undress. (Out of plain view of a mirror of course. I didn’t need a dose of stark reality that early in the a.m.)
Without a second thought, I turned to reach for my bottoms at the same time the door to the change room swung open, and a father with his infant came strolling in. That’s right, a father, as in male, as in a guy standing no more than five feet from me, in all my birthday suit glory.
His forced aversion (no, I don’t see the naked chick standing beside me) was immediate. I do thank him, at the very least, for making the situation less humiliating by not drawing further attention to the fact that I was buck naked in the middle of a UNISEX family change room. (I guess that’s what they meant by special.)
I’m sure MY attempted nonchalance –I meant to be naked, alright? Yeah, I know it’s not women-only. I’m just comfortable with my body, ok?—was undermined by the fact that I felt my skin fire on all cylinders and go through about six shades of red.
Couple that with the world’s fastest entry into a bathing suit (seriously, I could have medalled), and my secret was out: I wasn’t aware that ‘family’ obviously included dads, nor was I aware of the stick-figure mom, dad, and child logos just outside the door, trumpeting that very fact.
As a friend of mine later laughed when told, ‘you know you were someone’s story that night’.
In any event, the lesson has been learned. Look before changing lanes, yield when you’re supposed to yield, and for god’s sake, keep your clothes on in public. Or atleast use the provided change stall.