And the horror isn’t confined to my office. I was at a restaurant once and was stoked to see the private bathroom. It was a nice place so I knew they would have candles and sprays and all sorts of smell cover-uppers. I waited patiently, relieved, when the door opens and out comes a guy … holding … a … newspaper. Oh God, no. There is no way in hell I am going in there now. This is not your home, guy! Jeez.
Another favorite is the private public restroom with no spray. You have been holding your pee in for three beers and it’s way past due. You are standing outside the door, it opens, a patron comes out, and sure enough, she has made a deposit at the porcelain bank. Screw it though, you have to pee. So, you rush in, hold your nose, pee, and then bust out the door again right in time to see the next customer—a really cute guy or girl or a friend or your boyfriend’s mom. You want to scream—it wasn’t me!—but somehow that seems even more juvenile. We all poop, don’t we?
I worry about this every single day. I try to wait for odd times during the day—when people are in meetings, when everyone is at lunch. I have secured other locations within a few block radius where anonymity is secured for the days that I just don’t feel like dealing. But I am tired of fretting about it. WE ALL DO IT, for God’s sake. Why can’t we be more like guys? They shit and fart and don’t hold back on any noises from any orifice. Sure it’s crass, but it’s honest and refreshing.
But no, this will go on for all time. It never ends. I find solace in knowing that at least I am not one of those people who won’t go anywhere but at home and hold it until there is possible irreversible damage to the colon.
Umm … I just realized that once all my coworkers read this, I will be bathroom-girl. Oh well, I am okay with being the butt of the joke.
