Potty All the Time!

Women have a lot of crazy stuff to do in the bathroom. There's a lot of navigation for us that men don't have to go through.

I've always been fascinated by the bathroom. When I was a kid, it was a way to take a break from a boring dinner out, or wander around aimlessly. It apparantly was also a way to drive my mother batty, knowing that as soon as we got somewhere I would have to go. And it's not like she could say no; because I might really have to go. There's something unsettling about a 7 year old who is really excited to go check out the bathroom.

Anyhoo, I wish I could say I grew out of it, but nay. A weak bladder and a sense of misadventure gives you an appreciation of a nice bathroom. Best bathroom I have ever been in? Has been when I was visiting my friend Angela's last hotel of employment, the JW Marriott Starr Pass in Tucson. I would pay to simply stay in the bathroom.

Worst? This port-o-potty in Italy featured to the left that was just a hole in the plastic, and then before you could say holy manicotti disinfectant was sprayed all over the bottom of the thing, soaking feet as well. It's apparantly the one thing in Italy that is done in haste. Everything else, luggage delivery, eating, directions, takes a freakin' half of a day. I emerged reeking of Pine-Sol and no better for it.

Is it weird to say I feel safer in an airplane lavatory? For some reason I've always envisioned that if the plane went down, I would be safe, screeching to a halt and fully encapsulated in the pod of the bathroom.

Is it weird that when I worked for the Air Force as a civilian I was the only girl in our building, which made me the only one to use the bathroom, which made falling asleep for 2 hours on the toilet one day due to "college stress" (i.e. staying up until 4am watching Mystery Science Theater 3000) seem pretty normal, since it was my bathroom anyway? Well, don't answer that, I know it's weird.

But then I was thinking about it. My friend Stephanie and I went to the REM concert at the outdoor Merriweather Post Pavilion in Columbia, MD the other day. As with most concerts, the bathroom line was long and the bathroom was disgusting. By the time I got up to the stall, got in, it was too late to bow out just because the door didn't lock. Without missing a beat, I adopted the following stance:

As you can see, I had a sizable purse, which could not be put on the ground for fear of contamination. So, I clenched it in my teeth. The door didn't lock and there were a lot of people, so I leaned forward and closed the door with my head. Additional challenges include the standard not sitting on the seat, and being unable to obtain a square of toilet paper in the oh-so-helpful dispenser.

It was gross. It was done quickly. But dammit, I felt a rush of pride for my gender. Look at all we endure! As I balanced my forehead against the crappy wooden door that failed to lock, I thought, "wow, I'm a tough chick! look at this! and i know all my friends have done this." Well, except my friend Simona who refuses to use any public restroom.

It was a good feeling. As I ran my hands under the scalding hot water, squirted out the non-existent soap in the dispenser, and pulled the lever only to be gravely disappointed by the lack of a paper towel, I glowed with my pride. Then I went home and took a scalding hot shower and used lot of hand sanitizer, because, let's admit it, I wouldn't have done that unless I absolutely freakin' had to.