You have to visit a public restroom. Usually you find a line of women, so you smile politely and take your place in line. Once it’s your turn, and you enter the restroom door, 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 only to find the door won’t latch. It doesn’t matter, though. 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 (God I should have gone to the gym!!!) 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 hanging around your neck, that now, you have to hold up trying not to strangle yourself at the same time). That will 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 topple backward against the tank of the toilet. “OCCUPIED!” you scram, as you reach for the door, dropping your precious, and tiny, crumpled tissue in a puddle on the floor, loses your footing altogether, and slid down directly on the toilet seat.
IT’S 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 the 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 e-x-h-a-u-s-t-e-d! 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, punk 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?”
Well, Peeps, maybe this will explain to men what really does take the women so long. It also answers their other commonly asked question about why women go to the restroom (rest???) in pairs. It’s so the other gal can hold the door, hang onto your purse, and hand you Kleenex under the door.
And know that a FRIEND is like a good bra. Hard to Find, Supportive, Comfortable, Always Lifts You Up, Never Lets You Down or Leaves You Hanging, And Is Always Close to Your Heart!!!
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