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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 f or 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 SE AT. 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.
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 f or 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 SE AT. 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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