I keep a pad of Post-It Notes in a special pocket in my purse, and they have a special purpose.

If, for instance, someone should come up to me and ask for a scrap of paper to jot down a number, I say I don’t have one. It isn’t because I’m stingy. I just keep forgetting that, to everyone else, a Post-It is a piece of paper with convenient sticky backing.

For me, the Post-It Note is a weapon. It is the one thing that allows me to defeat my arch nemesis: the motion-sensing automatic toilet.

With Post-Its at my side, I can walk fearlessly where I once feared to tread, to the battleground that has frightened me away since childhood.

In I go. I unzip the purse. I pull out my Post-Its. I stick one over the sensor. I do my business. I take off the Post-It. The toilet flushes like a normal, sane toilet. I fold up the note and drop it in the trash on my way to the sink.

Now if I can stop yelling, “Victory is mine!” after one flushes at my command, they’ll let me back into polite society.