Thursday, April 23, 2009

Every Woman's (Public Restroom) experience?

(The author of the "original" is unknown to me, but this piece HAD to have been written by a woman! Here's my re-write of a version that was emailed to me.)

If you are female, you are sure to have empathy for this story...


Whenever we (ladies) are compelled to use a Public Restroom, we typically find a line of women waiting at the entrance. So, we smile politely and take our place. Once it's our turn, we check for: feet protruding from under the stall doors. Naturally, every stall is occupied.

Finally, a door opens and you (let's switch to 2nd-person) dash in - nearly knocking down the woman who was leaving the stall.

You get in, only to find the door won't latch.
It doesn't matter, the wait had been so long, that you are about to wet your pants! The dispenser for the modern 'seat covers' (invented by someone's Mom, someplace) is handy, but (of course) it's, empty. You would hang your purse on the door-hook, if there was one, but (uh-uh) there isn't. Next, you carefully (but quickly) drape your purse around your neck (Mom would have a fit, 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 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 begin to shake even more.

You remember the tiny tissue that you blew your nose on yesterday - the one that's still in your purse. (Oh yeah, but it's in the purse hung around your neck, that now, you have to hold up, while trying not to strangle yourself at the same time). That would have to do. You crumple it in the puffiest way possible. It's still smaller than your thumbnail .

Then, suddenly -- someone pushes your door open (because the latch doesn't work). The door hits your purse (still hanging around your neck) on your chest, and you and your purse topple backward against the tank of the toilet.
'Occupied!' you scream, as you reach for the door, thereby dropping your precious, tiny, crumpled tissue - straight into a puddle on the floor - losing your footing altogether, as you slide-down, directly onto the TOILET SEAT (plop). The seat 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 that resides 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 any of this, because you're certain her bare bottom never touched a public toilet seat and because, frankly dear, 'You just don't KNOW what kind of diseases you could get.'

Yes, Mom (you think to yourself), I know.

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 (it sprays a fine mist of water that covers your butt and runs down your legs and into your shoes). Sweet. Water everywhere (now it does look like you wet your pants, for sure). 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 exhausted.

You try to wipe with a gum wrapper that you found in your pocket and then slink out of the stall (inconspicuously, more or less) 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? Eh?) You yank the paper from your shoe, plunk it in the woman's hand and tell her warmly, 'Here, you just might need this.'

As you exit, you spot your man -- 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?'

You smile wryly, guarding your silence for Mom's sake.

Yes, this piece was written by a woman (anonymously, due to obvious reasons). It is dedicated to women everywhere who must deal with Public Restrooms. (Rest? You've GOT to be kidding!). It successfully explains (for all the men) what really causes we ladies to take so long. It also answers their other commonly asked questions 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 Kleenex to you, under the door!


Have a good one...

Restroom Experience, that is.

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