CareBear3030
Active Member
> My mother was a fanatic about public toilets.
> As a little girl, she'd bring me in the stall, teach me to wad 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."
>
> And she'd demonstrate "The Stance," which consisted of balancing
> over the toilet in a sitting position without actually letting any
> of your flesh make contact with the toilet seat. But by this time,
> I'd have wet down my leg. And we'd go home.
>
> That was a long time ago. Even now in our more mature years, The
> Stance is excruciatingly difficult to maintain when one's bladder
> is especially full. When you have to "go" in a public 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.
>
> Finally, a stall door opens and you dash, 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 purse on the door hook, yank down
> your pants and assume "The Stance." Relief. 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
> on it, so you hold The Stance as your thighs experience a quake
> that would register an eight on the Richter scale.
>
> To take your mind off it, you reach for the toilet paper. The
> toilet paper dispenser is empty. Your thighs shake more. You
> remember the tiny tissue that you blew your nose on that's in your
> purse. It would have to
> do. You crumble it in the puffiest way possible. It is still smaller
> than your thumbnail.
>
> Someone pushes open your stall door because the latch doesn't work
> and your purse whams you in the head. "Occupied!" you scream as
> you reach out for the door, dropping your tissue in a puddle and
> falling backward, directly onto the toilet seat.
>
> You get up quickly, but it's too late. Your bare bottom has made
> contact with all the germs and life forms on the bare seat because
> YOU never laid down toilet paper, not that there was any, even if
> you 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 don't 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 onto the toilet paper dispenser for fear of
> being dragged to China. At that point, you give up. You're soaked
> by the splashing water.
> You're exhausted. You try to wipe with a Chicklet wrapper you found in
> your pocket, then slink out inconspicuously to the sinks.
>
> You can't figure out how to operate the sinks with the automatic
> sensors, so you wipe your hands with spit and a dry paper towel
> and walk past a line of women, still waiting, cross-legged and
> unable to smile politely at this point. One kind soul at the very
> 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, plunk it in the woman's hand
> and say warmly, "Here. You might need this."
>
> At this time, you see your spouse, who has entered, used and
> exited his bathroom and read a copy of War and Peace while waiting
> for you. "What took you so long?" he asks, annoyed.
>
> This is when you kick him sharply in the shin and go home.
>
> This is dedicated to all women everywhere who have ever had to deal with
> a public toilet.
>
> And it finally explains to all you men what takes us so long.
> As a little girl, she'd bring me in the stall, teach me to wad 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."
>
> And she'd demonstrate "The Stance," which consisted of balancing
> over the toilet in a sitting position without actually letting any
> of your flesh make contact with the toilet seat. But by this time,
> I'd have wet down my leg. And we'd go home.
>
> That was a long time ago. Even now in our more mature years, The
> Stance is excruciatingly difficult to maintain when one's bladder
> is especially full. When you have to "go" in a public 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.
>
> Finally, a stall door opens and you dash, 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 purse on the door hook, yank down
> your pants and assume "The Stance." Relief. 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
> on it, so you hold The Stance as your thighs experience a quake
> that would register an eight on the Richter scale.
>
> To take your mind off it, you reach for the toilet paper. The
> toilet paper dispenser is empty. Your thighs shake more. You
> remember the tiny tissue that you blew your nose on that's in your
> purse. It would have to
> do. You crumble it in the puffiest way possible. It is still smaller
> than your thumbnail.
>
> Someone pushes open your stall door because the latch doesn't work
> and your purse whams you in the head. "Occupied!" you scream as
> you reach out for the door, dropping your tissue in a puddle and
> falling backward, directly onto the toilet seat.
>
> You get up quickly, but it's too late. Your bare bottom has made
> contact with all the germs and life forms on the bare seat because
> YOU never laid down toilet paper, not that there was any, even if
> you 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 don't 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 onto the toilet paper dispenser for fear of
> being dragged to China. At that point, you give up. You're soaked
> by the splashing water.
> You're exhausted. You try to wipe with a Chicklet wrapper you found in
> your pocket, then slink out inconspicuously to the sinks.
>
> You can't figure out how to operate the sinks with the automatic
> sensors, so you wipe your hands with spit and a dry paper towel
> and walk past a line of women, still waiting, cross-legged and
> unable to smile politely at this point. One kind soul at the very
> 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, plunk it in the woman's hand
> and say warmly, "Here. You might need this."
>
> At this time, you see your spouse, who has entered, used and
> exited his bathroom and read a copy of War and Peace while waiting
> for you. "What took you so long?" he asks, annoyed.
>
> This is when you kick him sharply in the shin and go home.
>
> This is dedicated to all women everywhere who have ever had to deal with
> a public toilet.
>
> And it finally explains to all you men what takes us so long.
