THIS ONE IS A SAGA..................................................
PUBLIC RESTROOMS
My mother was a fanatic about public toilets. As a little girl, she'd bring me in the stall, teach me to wade 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, legs spread slightly, squating over the toilet, without actually letting any flesh make contact with the toilet seat.
But by this time, I'd have peed down my leg. And we'd go home.
That was a long time ago. I've had lots of experiences with public toilets since then, but I'm still not particularly fond of public toilets, especially those with 'redeye' sensors. Those toilets know when you want them to flush. They are 'psychic toilets'. But I always confuse their psychic ability by following my mother's advise and assuming 'THE STANCE'. 'THE STANCE' is excurciatingly difficult to maintain when one's bladder is especially full. This is most likely to occur after a full-length feature film. During the movie pee, it is nearly impossible to maintain 'THE STANCE'. You know what I mean. You drink a two liter cup of Diet Coke, while sitting through a three hour saga because, for God's sake, even if you didn't wipe or wash your hands in the bathroom, you'd still miss the pivotal part of the movie, or the second scene, in which thy flash the leading man's naked derriere. So you cross your legs and you hold it. And you hold it til the first credits roll and you sprint to the bathroom, about ready to explode. And at the bathroom, you find a line of women that makes you think there's a half-price sale on Mel Gibson'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. You hope no one is doing frivolous things behind those stall doors, like blowing their nose, or adjusting their clothing. Finally, a stall 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. You hang your handbag on the door hook, yank down your pants and assume 'THE STANCE'.
Relief. Then 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 down, so you hold 'THE STANCE, as your thighs experience a quake that would register an 8 on the richter scale. To take your mind off it, you reach for the toilet paper. Might as well be ready when you're done. The toilet paper dispenser is empty. Your thighs shake more. You remember the tiny napkin you wiped your fingers on after eating the buttered popcorn. It would have to do. You crumble it in the puffiest way possible, but it's still smaller than your thumbnail. Someone pushes open your stall door, because the latch doesn't work, and your pocketbook goes slamming into your head. "Occupied!", you scream, as you reach out to slam the door shut, dropping your buttered popcorn napkin on the dirty floor, falling backward, directly onto the toilet seat. You get up quickly, but no, it's too late. Your bare bottom has made contact with all the germs and life forms your mother warned about, because you didn't lay the toilet paper down, not that there was any, even if you had 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 never know what kind of diseases you could get." And 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 such force that you grab on to the toilet paper dispensor for fear of being dragged to China. At that point you give up. You're finished peeing. You're soaked. You're exhausted. You try and wipe with a gum wrapper you found in your pocket, then slink out inconspiciously to the sinks. You can't figure out how to operate the sinks with their automatic sensors, so you wipe your hands with dry papertowel, and walk past a line of women, still waiting, crossed-legged and unable to smile politely at this point.
One kind soul, at the 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, pluck it in the woman's hand and say warmly, "Here, you might need this."
