Why it takes so long ...
My mother was a fanatic about public toilets. As a
little girl, she'd bring me in the stall, teach me 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. And 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. But
by this time, I'd have wet down my leg. And we'd
go home.
That was a long time ago. Even now in our more mature
years, The Stance is excruciatingly difficult to
maintain when one's bladder is especially full. When
you have to "go" in a public bathroom, you find a line
of women that makes you think there's a half-price
sale on Nelly's underwear in there. So, you
wait and smile politely at all the other ladies, also
crossing their legs and smiling politely. And you
finally get closer. You check
for feet under the stall doors. Every one is occupied.
Finally, a stall door opens and you dash, nearly
knocking down the woman leaving the stall. You get in
to find the door won't latch. It doesn't matter.
You hang your purse on the door hook, yank down your
pants and assume "The Stance." Relief. More relief. Then your thighs 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 as your thighs experience a quake that would register an eight on the Richter scale. To take your mind off it, you reach for the toilet paper.
The toilet paper dispenser is empty. Your
thighs shake more. You remember the tiny tissue
that you blew your nose on-that's in your purse. It
would have to do. You crumble 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 and your purse whams
you in the head. Occupied!" you scream as you reach
out for the door, dropping your tissue in a puddle and
falling backward, directly onto the toilet seat. You
get up quickly, but it's too late. Your bare bottom
has made contact with all the germs and life forms on
the bare seat because YOU never laid down toilet
paper, not that there was any, even if you had enough
time to. And your mother would be utterly ashamed of
you if she knew, because her bare bottom never touched
a public toilet seat because, frankly, "You 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, sending up
a stream of water akin to a fountain and then it
suddenly sucks everything down with s! such force that
you grab onto the toilet paper dispenser for fear of
being dragged to China. At
that point, you give up. You're soaked by the splashing water. You're exhausted. You try to wipe
with a Chicklet wrapper you found in your pocket, then
slink out inconspicuously to the sinks. You can't figure out how to operate the sinks with the automatic sensors, so you wipe your hands with spit and a dry paper towel and walk past a line of women, still waiting, cross-legged and unable to smile politely at this point. One kind soul at the very end of the line points out that you are trailing a piece of toilet paper on your shoe as long as the
Mississippi River! You yank the paper from your shoe,
plunk it in the woman's hand and say warmly, "Here.
You might need this."
At this time, you see your man, who has entered,
used and exited his bathroom and read a copy of War
and Peace while waiting for you. "What took you so
long?" he asks, annoyed. This is when you kick him
sharply in the shin and go home.
This is dedicated to all women everywhere who have
ever had to deal with a public toilet. And it finally
explains to all you men what takes us so
long.