I've been on vacation; this means I've spent a lot of time in public restrooms. This also means that I've also been thinking a lot about public restrooms.
Recently, someone said something to me about being worried that a woman may have set her purse on a restroom floor, then onto a counter or table. The thing that struck me was the fear of the floor. I couldn't help thinking - let's see, how to say this without being unnecessarily graphic? My first, overiding thought was that it's silly to fear the floor. If you're a germaphobe, and the thought of all public, well trodden floors gives you the willies, OK. If not, well, if a person is of an age or ability level where keeping all the necessary excretions in the toilet is an issue, they'll have a capable helper with them. The floor shouldn't be any dirtier than the floor at a Neiman-Marcus.
This discussion, of course, does not include women who hover over the seat, creating what Dave Barry called "a wee wee waterpark" because they're afraid the seat will be dirty. That's a separate discussion entirely. In brief: Ladies! You fear a dirty seat because you create dirty seats (and floors)! Sit down, for crying out loud! Save the rest of us the aggravation!
I didn't say anything at the time I heard the floor comment, though. I've learned to gauge, with some accuracy, situations that will cause people to view me as though I just landed from another (wierder) planet. (Better late than never; I'm only 45.) I then have to weigh the importance of the situation before deciding whether or not the ensuing fracas will be worth stating my opinion. Restrooms are not that high on my scale. I said nothing.
I kept thinking about it, though. Was it just a standard germaphobic reaction to our increasingly hand sanitizer saturated culture? Was I missing some important piece of information? I didn't know, and I wasn't going to ask.
Then I saw something that turned on the little light bulb in my head.
I was at our weekly homeschool co-op, in the restroom. It was between classes, so naturally it was a bit crowded. Some of the girls, aged about 3 to 11, were changing into leotards and tights for dance class.
A mother came in to find her daughter, who was about eight years old. The daughter was already in the stall, which seemed to cause the mom a bit more concern than I thought was necessary. How closely does an 8 year old need their dressing tasks supervised?
A minute or so passed, and the mom again called in to the daughter. She got the response, "I'm getting dressed!" "Well, you need to get out of there!" the mom replied. I thought she was concerned about emptying up a stall so that someone else could use it. We still had about 10 minutes left of passing time, so it wasn't critical, but being considerate is advisable.
It only took another 15 or 20 seconds before Mom's cool really started to crack. "WHAT ARE YOU DOING?"
"Getting dressed!"
"YOU NEED TO COME OUT OF THERE. Right now. It's filthy. How close are you?"
"I dunno." (Typical kid answer.)
Mom handled it for another 10 seconds or so, and then she just lost it. "GET OUT! GET OUT! RIGHT NOW! I'M COMING IN!" She began to shake the door. "OPEN UP! OPEN UP RIGHT NOW!" The daughter opened the door, which actually made Mom more agitated. The girl had tights in her hand, with her other clothes already off. Naturally, as she leaned down to put the tights over her foot, they dragged on the floor. Her mother pulled her, stark naked and deeply embarrassed, out of the stall, howling instructions like, "DON'T TOUCH THAT! IT'S FILTHY!" The fact that the tights were dragging on the floor almost undid Mom, as did the daughter reaching out to steady herself on the wall. Her regular clothes were discarded on the floor; I thought for a moment that her mother would advise burning them. "THAT'S FILTHY!"
Into this crowded room this naked child was thrust, clearly wishing the floor would open and swallow her. Her mother ushered her, still naked, into the room before the one with the stalls and sinks. It's one of those "mother's lounge" type rooms, with a comfy couch, a counter with tissues and art in soothing pastels. "Get dressed IN HERE," her mother insisted, heedless of the fact that the door to this room opened out into a public hallway, and the poor kid was feeling exposed enough.
Ah ha! I thought. Here is someone who's read those ridiculous studies by the scientist who named his son after the e.coli virus, the guy who memorably told us all, two decades or so ago, that when you flush the toilet, microscopic particles of feces are flung into the air. This woman clearly felt that being in the stall, or even in the room with the stalls, was the equivalent of rolling on the floor of an uncleaned dog kennel.
I'm not sure if I would - or should - have said anything if she was a close friend. I probably would have appalled her, so it's best that I keep quiet.
But, for the record, here's what I think. Relax, already!
Even the author of these studies will tell you that there's no documentable cases of harm caused by flush molecules. We are all clear on "microscopic," right? At the microscopic level, you would be horrified by the stuff you breathe, ingest and wash in every day. Most of us are clearly better off not knowing.
We have microscopic bugs, for lack of a better word, living in our eyelashes. The most fastidious housekeeper still has dust mites, and their feces, in the home.
The FDA has an actual law about how many insect parts can be in your canned and bottled food. (Let's ignore, for a moment, the fact that most of the globe views insects as food themselves, an inexpensive, easily sustainable, low fat, high protein meal or snack, while we Americans view them as one tiny step above feces.)
I'm not advocating that we lick the inside of stalls, just that we have a little perspective. Simply being in a public restroom is not hazardous. If it was, good heavens, imagine the widespread pestilence. In its absence, we really have to calm down.
And honestly, if you're worried about invisible vapor, wouldn't a blast of it be emitted into the lounge room every time the door between them opened?
Which brings me back to the whole purse thing: again, why fixate on the floor? If you're freaked out about flush vapor, you'll get it all over your purse if you hang it on the purse hook or set it on the little purse shelf, not just if you set it on the floor. If that unglues you, I can't help you, but if it doesn't, and floors in general don't freak you out, again, calm down.
Once, in Old Town San Diego, I stood in line for the one women's stall within a 30 minute walk. Naturally, the line was excruciatingly long - why does this rarely happen to men? Anyway, the two people directly in front of me were a girl of about 12 and a woman probably in her 30s. After the girl walked away, the woman entered the single occupancy restroom, and almost ran back out. After waiting in line for approximately 25 minutes, she now told me, with disgust, "I wouldn't even go in there. She didn't even flush. I can't use it. I'm going to go find another restroom." She indicated that she expected everyone in line to come with her.
At that point, my bladder could not have taken the walk across the square searching for another restroom (and hoping it didn't have a line), but I don't think I would have done anything differently if the need had been less urgent. I walked into the restroom, flushed, and used it.
I know that the woman in front of me was probably thinking that if the girl was a non-flusher, her hygeine was so bad that it would adversely affect anyone who came after her. My theory is that if the toilet needs flushed, you flush it. It takes a fraction of a second and a single finger. It's not a huge deal. It doesn't matter if you do it, or the person before you does it, or if the custodian does it. How many times, in your own house, do your family members walk away without flushing? It's not the Apocalypse. I often flush unflushed toilets in public restrooms. My theory on seat drizzle is pretty much the same. Wipe it off, set down a seat protector and do your thing.
I know. I do. I can tell you the exact names of friends and relatives who are now making the same sound the Wicked Witch of the West made when Dorothy hit her with the bucket of water. They're getting ready to tell me that I'll get irreversible Nether Region Rot and die a horrible death, that my family will have to spoonfeed me, but from a distance so that they don't catch anything dire.
If those things do freak you out, you and I will never see eye to eye, and it's in everyone's best interest that we not discuss it. Ever.
But now, if you're still with me, I have to share my two favorite public restroom stories. One involves the mens room and one, the ladies: I believe in equality.
My friend Mike is phobic about two things: homosexuals and public restrooms. Normally, it's eccentric, and amusing in a "watch him squirm" kind of way. However, Mike is an actor and a wonderful storyteller, so his story had me in absolute tears of laughter when he related it.
Years ago, Mike was Christmas shopping near his home. He was at the mall when he realized that he would not make it home before he simply HAD to relieve himself. He considered every alternative, and finally chose the most expensive store in the mall, figuring that its restrooms would be better maintained and altogether "safer." Even this part of the story is funny when you hear Mike tell it. "I wondered how I'd explain to my mom that I couldn't fly home for Christmas if I was arrested for indecent exposure after pulling over on the way home to go in a bush."
He gritted his teeth and walked into the restroom and was relieved to see no one else. He chose a stall and sat down to conduct his business. Trying to deal with his nervousness, he noticed something written on the back of the door. I'm going to repeat it here, as it's necessary to the story, but
WARNING! WARNING! WARNING!
it's a bit graphic. You might want to shield yourself or small children at this point.
Written on the back of the stall door was, "For a blow job, tap your foot." Below that was a day and time. The day, Mike realized in horror, was the current date. The time was ten minutes previous.
In Mike's words, "My sphincter muscles instantly froze, then contracted. Every muscle in my body froze. There was no way I was going to be able to go." He looked down under the wall of the stall and discovered that in the next stall, he could see a pair of shoes, shoes that were on the feet of another restroom occupant.
There is no way possible to do this story justice, especially from here on out, unless you are Mike. Most of the rest of the story is best told with the accompanying visuals. Mike told how he leapt up, nearly falling over as he yanked up his pants. "I was terrified to take a single step, lest he think I was tapping my foot, but I had to get out of there immediately." Now, imagine someone like Steve Martin or Jim Carrey, a master of physical comedy. Only they could recreate the image of Mike demonstrating how he ran out of the bathroom, arms flailing in the air, without ever lifting either of his feet off the floor. It's like watching a demented, posessed skier. The physical needs that had needed tending so urgently just a moment before disappeared as he lurched, terrified, out of the restroom and fled the mall.
Mike feels that this incident ably demonstrates why his fear of both gay men and public restrooms are totally justified. I think it's fabulous entertainment.
Years after hearing Mike's story, I came home from an evening out and told my husband, "I have finally discovered why women bring a friend with them when they go to the restroom." I never understood that. Why do you need company? Do you need help? A bodyguard? Someone to sacrifice to the ghosts/attackers/rift in the space/time continuum? Are you unable to be alone, ever? Then, thanks to my friend Jami, I was witness to why, exactly, a lady might want a friend with her.
Jami's another actor. We were out with the cast of the show she was in at the time. I'd ushered the performance in order to see it for free. Frequently, after a show, the cast, crew and friends will go out - often to a bar, since they're open late. Since I don't drink and occasions like this are the only time I'm ever in bars, I haven't observed much stereotypical bar behavior. We arrive in a pack, we leave in a pack - I don't generally see anyone flirting or getting hit on. For some reason, though, that night more than one man approached our table to hit on Jami.
They weren't lewd about it, and backed down easily, but it still unnerved her. Jami's like me, married since she was barely out of her teens, so she wasn't looking to be hit on.
She's also tiny - about 5'2" or 5'3" and barely breaking three digits in weight. After she'd had two drinks, she mentioned that she'd had nothing to eat that day. It was 11 or so at night, and the mommy in me came out and I scolded her. "I ordered food. It'll be here soon," she said. She did recognize that she was already feeling lightheaded, which was not a good sign. Jami's sweet and talented, but can be a bit loopy, as well as naive. Intoxication did not seem like a good plan. (It never is.)
When she had to use the restroom, she asked me to go with her. She provided a reason, though, unlike the usual "come with me" request. One of the men who'd hit on her was still staring at her, as were two other men directly between us and the restroom. She wanted someone to run blocker for her. This I can do - I don't even care if I hurt someone's feelings. She took my hand and dragged me through the room as though I was a shield or bodyguard, which, I suppose, I was.
The restroom was small, with two stalls and a single sink. I waited while Jami went into a stall. She didn't take very long to accomplish her purposes, but then she couldn't figure out how to get out of the stall. Those drinks on an empty stomach had addled her brain.
At first, she was quiet and calm. "How do you open this thing?" she wondered out loud. It had one of those bars that you grip between your index finger and thumb and turn.
"You just take ahold of the latch and turn it. I forget which way. If one way doesn't work, try the other way." I honestly thought that would be the end of it. I, too, am sometimes tragically naive.
"It doesn't work! It won't open!" Jami began to stress. I couldn't tell if she was actually turning the knob, just that the door was rattling as she became more frantic. "It won't work! I can't get out!"
I moved closer and closer to the door as I instructed in my best mommy voice, "TURN it. You have to turn it. Take hold and turn it." Poor Jami was becoming shrill and terrified.
I tried to take hold of the little circle on my side of the door that was the back of the latch. Any parent has had to turn the knob from the outside before, in order to get their kid out, but I don't have long nails, so it was difficult. It wasn't working. By now, Jami was beating on the door and crying.
Then, she gave up dealing with the latch at all. She gripped the top of the door and began to shake it fiercely, screaming. Occasionally, the shrieking would form a word - "HELP!" - but a lot of it was just howls of anguish as she attemped to beat the door off its hinges. I knew what had to happen.
"JAMI. Stand back. Go all the way to the back of the stall. I'm coming in."
The wailing subsided to sniffles, and she let go of the top of the door. "All the way to the back wall, OK, Jami? I need room."
WARNING!!!! WARNING!!!! WARNING!!!!!!
If you are a germaphobe, if contact with public surfaces freaks you out, if anything I have said so far makes your skin crawl, DO NOT read any further. Trust me. I don't want your sleepless nights on my conscience.
I lay down on the floor and started to Army crawl under the stall door.
Keep in mind, I am not small. I'm a good 6 inches taller than Jami and twice her weight. I had a C cup bra in high school, and things have only gotten bigger since then. I was not sure I'd even fit under the stall door.
Behind me, I heard the restroom door open when I was about halfway under. I was now trying not to hit my head on the toilet, while the newcomer was greeted by the sight of my large bottom and legs hanging out from under the door. Whoever she was, whatever she needed to do, whatever kinkiness she imagined was happening, she chose not to enter the room's empty stall, said nothing and quietly closed the door as she left.
I finally wiggled under enough to stand up, turn around and unlatch the door. Jami was exultant. "You saved me! You saved me!" She flung her arms around me and hugged with all her might. Then she bolted out of the stall, as though the door might slam shut at any second and once again imprison her.
"You saved me," she repeated, reverently this time. "I would still be trapped if it weren't for you. I don't know what I would have done if you weren't here." We both washed up at the single sink (me, all the way up my arms) and she hugged me again. "I don't know what I would have done without you. I'd still be trapped," she repeated.
Later, when she sobered up a bit, Jami asked me not to tell anyone. "It's so embarrassing." The next night at the show, though (I was ushering all weekend) she said, "I told my husband. And everybody else. You can tell people, the people who don't already know." Then, a bit indignantly, "They laughed at me! I was stuck."
Maybe it's best that I don't ask you to accompany me to public restrooms, isn't it?
