Download MOG-2006-05-17.mp3 (Click to listen)
Picture this: You’re at the mall or traveling, or maybe attending a special event. Nature calls…ever so quietly at first. You don’t answer. Nature kicks the volume up a bit. You still don’t get the hint. Now growing impatient, Nature begins to yell.
“Hellllooooo, we have to pee! Don’t force me to act ugly in public…you know I can! Does the word “depends” mean anything to you? ”
You squint, tuck your butt cheeks it in, try to squeeze it off. You even try visualizing yourself drudging through the desert with the sand blowing in your face. You do everything to divert your senses from Nature’s increasingly threatening call. You even start doing that little dance—you know the one. But alas, you’re losing this battle. Your eyes are beginning to pop…the frequency of the synapses in your usually normal brain is growing more erratic…your face begins to “glow” in a sweaty sort of way. I do believe your eye color is changing—is that crimson?! Things don’t look good. You assess your situation as best you can. You correctly conclude you are too far from home to satisfy this urge in the sanctity and comfort of a familiar space.
You are now in emergency status—you do all you can do to prevent that warm trickle down your leg. You eyes start darting in every direction…you’ve got to find it…the sign…the sign…where is the sign. There it is! You scurry toward it. Yes, you have no other option. You are facing what we all fear. You have to use the dreaded public restroom—the bathroom EVERYONE on the planet uses. Yes, the horror stories you’ve heard are true.
You stand in front of the door with the sign showing the outline of a woman in an outdated dress. Oh my, you think…is this it? You turn the knob to open the door—mega mega trillions of germs hitch a ride on your hand. They’ve been waiting at this biological bus stop just for you to come along. You step inside the little house of horrors. You try not to breath—but your brain is already starving for oxygen—so, you take in a breath—but just a shallow one.
You’ve entered a whole different world. Yes, you are definitely out of your element. No more scented candles, no four-ply toilet paper with cutesy designs, no soft-cushiony toilet seats (if you like that sort of thing), no decorative flowers, no colorful glass vases, no fragrant soaps in pastel colors that match the walls, no spotless mirrors or fixtures that bathed you in “good lighting.” Noticeable absent is the pure smell of CLEAN—your own brand of CLEAN—nobody else’s kind of CLEAN—just yours. Your nasal passages are assaulted by a smell that could only have come from the Army’s biological arsenal.
Fate, my friend has brought you face to face with a sobering destiny. You have entered the no-man’s land of the public ladies’ room. That small room that might have one-ply toilet paper—or it might not have any at all. That small room at the end of the narrow hallway, seemingly built as an afterthought for it’s just across from the stock room. This is the small room with graffiti-laden walls that inform you of invaluable insights such as the size of what’s his name whatchamacallit, or the phone numbers for several local serial killers, or that whats-her-name is really good at doing indescribable gymnastics.
This small relief station is no relief. It has a cold-water only sink with faucet knobs that dare you to touch them (no doubt the exit point for a few of those pesky little germs from you encounter with the door knob).
Luckily, this is a one-seater, otherwise you’d have to share this joyful experience with a stranger. You step quickly toward the almost-white porcelain opening and, being ever so careful not to touch ANYTHING, you bend your knees and assume the time honored toilet-seat-aversion girlie swat position. Ah…Nature’s call has been answered. You close your eyes and visualize toilet paper. Actually, it’s more like a prayer.
“God, please let there be toilet paper. Amen.”
Your appeal to a higher power gets results--you’re able to scratch off three one-ply squares. God is indeed good. With a north to south motion, you wipe the paper quickly past your “not-for-public-view” parts. But you do this ever so delicately, lest the featherweight toilet paper disintegrate in your hand. You pull up your rather lacey panties (or bloomers, or thongs depending on your mood). You make the necessary adjustments to your ensemble, then with one deft move you flush the offending receptacle with your foot. You’re almost done.
You step toward the sink, retrieve the last brown cardboard-like paper towel and rip it in half. The first half you secure under your chin for later use. The second half is used to cover and turn on the cold water faucet. Surprisingly, there is soap—industrial strength—but soap nonetheless. You wash your hands quickly, retrieve the small piece of paper towel from under your chin to dry your hands and sprint for the door. You’re almost free. Then, you freeze in your tracks--halted by a message posted at eye level on the back of the door:
“Dear Customer. We take pride in our “pubic” restrooms. Please notify the management if our facilities need attention. The Management.”
Sure you will. You cover the door knob with the used paper towel, fling the door open and take flight. You’ve almost escaped--your pace quickens as you follow the narrow hallway out into the real world—your nostrils fill with almost fresh air.
The tension begins to fade. Your systems are slowly returning to your version of normal. You feel lighter…relieved…safe. Ah…life is good. All that excitement has made you thirsty.
