I was having one of those mornings where you’re so busy that you’re actually trying to convince yourself that you really don’t need to go to the bathroom, it can wait just a little longer. Finally I could not stand it any longer and needed to escape my phone and inbox and fled to the women’s bathroom near our department.
I hate our bathroom. It was obviously thrown in as an afterthought. The stalls are all randomly sized. There is one stall that is actually so small that if you aren’t careful when you get up, your ass will knock the metal sanitary napkin dispenser off the wall. What is more, the sink vanity is long and narrow and the paper towels are at the end by the door. If there is more than one person in the general area, there will be awkward dancing around each other, as one tries to get around the wall to dry one’s hands and then out the door, the entire time, subtle thipping and poofing from the tiny walls of the tiny poo rooms.
When I entered the bathroom, I immediately noticed that two of the four stalls were occupied. And then the smell overtook me. I mean, I’ve been exposed to smells before. I spent a great deal of my childhood living on a farm. And you can’t share living quarters with a man like Esteban for 12 years without being exposed to some rather spectacular odors. The man has been known to clear outdoor camping areas, where there is not only a campfire but also a good stiff breeze.
And perhaps it wouldn’t have been so bad, but someone had grabbed the industrial air freshener, the one that has a picture of a vanilla ice cream cone on the can, and sprayed frantically, several long bursts, enough to leave gasping for breath an entire craft show full of women who decorate their homes with lace doilies and snowmen made from painted flowerpots and floral swags hanging on every vertical surface.
Even this was no match for the malodorous fog that hung in the women’s bathroom that day. The stench had taken up the vanilla, like an enemy’s dropped sword in battle, and used it against the innocent women of our building. It catalyzed with the vanilla, filling my mind with the image of a woman who could actually shit cupcakes with poop frosting, out of some fucked up Willy Wonka factory. I’ve got a Golden Ticket… to the seventh layer of hell.
What fool decided that a good air freshner for a bathroom would be VANILLA? Who the hell bakes in their bathroom? “Would you like one of my fresh gingerbread cookies? Why yes, it IS an usual shape. It’s a urinal. The round ones are supposed to be the the little hockey puck things.”
I held my breath. The other women were deadly silent. I think neither of them wanted to make a noise. Perhaps it was a strange game of ass chicken’ the first one who moved became the owner of The Horror. I raced into the closest stall, only then realizing that I was between the two occupied ones. It didn’t matter whose anus the fumes had escaped from’ I was a victim and could not escape. I started to get a little dizzy from not breathing so employed the TurtleNeck Strategy, pulling my shirt up over my mouth, thanking the good Lord for giving me the guilt about wearing a Torrid shirt on a Thursday and inspiring me to change into a nice responsible turtleneck and blazer. You never realize that the outfit you choose on any given day may just save your life.
Luckily, I only had a short tour of duty. I washed my hands and fled from the room, wiping my wet hands on my pants. The women never made a sound the entire time, and I realized then that neither of them would move. That’s how repressed our sociogeographic culture is. When there is anything other than gentle tinkling, avoid contact with any other person at all costs! If a small thip might escape, rustle toilet paper or flush the toilet, even if it means that you end up sounding like an inbred who just witnessed the miracle of indoor plumbing for the first time. One time when I accidentally knocked the sanitary napkin dispenser off the wall and it made a huge clatter as it hit the tile, the woman in the next stall assumed I was using subterfuge and offered me more toilet paper. Good Lutheran women do not make noise. Good Lutheran women do not lay pipe like some common truck driver. No. The Dignity must be maintained and it is very possible that those two women are still in that stall now, weaving little sleeping bags out of toilet paper, defying the other one to take the Walk of Shame.
I swear, sometimes an under-desk catheter sounds like a very good idea.
There’s a new Quoted up.
