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My mother was a fanatic about public restrooms. When I was a
little girl, she'd take me into the stall, show me how to wad up
toilet
paper and wipe the seat. Then she'd carefully lay strips of toilet
paper
to cover the seat. Finally, she'd instruct, "Never, NEVER sit on a
public toilet seat. Then she'd demonstrate "The Stance," which
consisted
of balancing over the toilet in a sitting position without actually
letting any of your flesh make contact with the toilet seat.
That was a long time ago. Now, in my "mature" years, "The
Stance" is excruciatingly difficult to maintain.
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 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 were 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. That would have to do.
You crumple it in the puffiest way possible. It is still smaller than
your thumbnail.
Someone pushes open your stall door 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 topple 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
firehose that somehow sucks everything down with such force that you
grab onto the toilet paper dispenser for fear of being dragged in too.
At that 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 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 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 restroom (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 question 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.
little girl, she'd take me into the stall, show me how to wad up
toilet
paper and wipe the seat. Then she'd carefully lay strips of toilet
paper
to cover the seat. Finally, she'd instruct, "Never, NEVER sit on a
public toilet seat. Then she'd demonstrate "The Stance," which
consisted
of balancing over the toilet in a sitting position without actually
letting any of your flesh make contact with the toilet seat.
That was a long time ago. Now, in my "mature" years, "The
Stance" is excruciatingly difficult to maintain.
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 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 were 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. That would have to do.
You crumple it in the puffiest way possible. It is still smaller than
your thumbnail.
Someone pushes open your stall door 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 topple 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
firehose that somehow sucks everything down with such force that you
grab onto the toilet paper dispenser for fear of being dragged in too.
At that 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 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 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 restroom (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 question 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.
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