When you have to visit a public bathroom,
you usually find a line of women, so you smile
politely and take your place. Once it’s your turn,
you check for feet under the stall doors. Every
stall is occupied.
Finally, a door opens and you dash in,
nearly knocking down the woman leaving the stall.
You get in to find the door won’t latch.
It doesn’t matter, the wait has been so long you
are about to wet your pants! The dispenser for the
modern ’seat covers’ (invented by someone’s
Mom,
no doubt) is handy, but empty. You would hang your
purse on the door hook, if there was one, but
there isn’t – so you carefully, but quickly drape
it around your neck, (Mom would turn over in her
grave if you put it on the FLOOR!), yank down your
pants, and assume ‘ The Stance.’
In this position your aging, toneless
thigh muscles begin to shake. You’d love to sit
down, but you certainly hadn’t taken time to wipe
the seat or lay toilet paper on it, so you hold
‘The Stance.’
To take your mind off your trembling
thighs, you reach for what you discover to be the
empty toilet paper dispenser. In your mind, you
can hear your mother’s voice saying, ‘Honey, if
you had tried to clean the seat, you would have
KNOWN there was no toilet paper!’ Your thighs shake
more.
You remember the tiny tissue that you blew
your nose on yesterday – the one that’s still in
your purse. (Oh yeah, the purse around your neck,
that now, you have to hold up trying not to
strangle yourself at the same time.) That would
have to do. You crumple it in the puffiest way
possible. It’s still smaller than your thumbnail.
Someone pushes your door open because the
latch doesn’t work. The door hits your purse,
which is hanging around your neck in front of your
chest, and you and your purse topples backward
against the tank of the toilet.
‘Occupied!’ you scream, as you reach for the door,
dropping your precious, tiny, crumpled tissue in a
puddle on the floor, lose your footing altogether,
and slide down directly onto the TOILET SEAT. It
is wet of course. You bolt up, knowing all too
well that it’s too late. Your bare bottom has made
contact with every imaginable germ and life form
on the uncovered seat because YOU never laid down
toilet paper – not that there was any, even if you
had taken time to try. You know that your mother
would be utterly appalled if she knew, because,
you’re certain her bare bottom never touched a
public toilet seat because, frankly, dear, ‘You
just don’t KNOW what kind of diseases you could
get.’
By this time, the automatic sensor on the
back of the toilet is so confused that it flushes,
propelling
a stream of water like a fire hose against the
inside of the bowl that sprays a fine mist of
water that covers your butt and runs down your
legs and into your shoes. The flush somehow sucks
everything down with such force that you grab onto the
empty toilet paper dispenser for fear of being
dragged in too.
At this point, you give up. You’re soaked
by the spewing water and the wet toilet seat.
You’re exhausted. You try to wipe with a gum
wrapper you found in your pocket and then slink
out inconspicuously to the sinks.
You can’t figure out how to operate the
faucets with the automatic sensors, so you wipe
your hands with spit and a dry paper towel and
walk past the line of women still waiting.
You are no longer able to smile politely
to them. A kind soul at the very end of the line
points out a piece of toilet paper trailing from
your shoe. (Where was that when you NEEDED it??)
You yank the paper from your shoe, plunk it in the
woman’s hand and tell her warmly, ‘Here, you just
might need this.’
As you exit, you spot your hubby, who has
long since entered, used, and left the men’s
restroom. Annoyed, he asks, ‘What took you so
long, and why is your purse hanging around your neck?’
This is dedicated to women everywhere who
deal with a public restrooms (rest??? you’ve GOT
to be kidding!!). It finally explains to the men
what really does take us so long. It also answers
their other commonly asked questions about why
women go to the restroom in pairs. It’s so the
other gal can hold the door, hang onto your purse
and hand you Kleenex
under the door!
This HAD to be written by a woman! No one
else could describe it so accurately!
signing off,
juzannies ♥
