Last weekend, in a wholly unsurprising turn of events, I ended up in the ladies’ room. Also not shocking: there was a line.
Here’s the math of the situation: Four ladies crammed in near the sink; two stalls, one occupied, the other with a note taped to it essentially reading, “Do not go in here because something terrible and potentially night-ending will happen if you do.”
“I think I’m gonna try it?” the woman in front with the side ponytail asked me. Not sure why I looked like The Boss of the Bathroom — I’d left my utility belt with plungers and rolls of toilet paper at home that evening.
“I dunno, man,” I said as the other two whipped their heads around towards the end of the line where I stood precariously close to the door. “There’s a sign, and the sign says, ‘Don’t do it,’ so, yeah…I’M not gonna.”
Their eyes turned angry, but their ire wasn’t directed at me. They were mad about the line. They were mad about one working stall. They were mad about the woman in said working stall possibly reading “War and Peace.” And they were mad about The Injustice Inherent in the Ladies Room System! Help, help, we’re being repressed!
We waited, and waited. After that, we waited some more.
Outside the noise and stank of a dookie session, the privacy goal of the stalls is being achieved. She could’ve been doing lines, knocking out a few rounds of Candy Crush, or crocheting a trivet for her grandmother. (I will totally narc you out to Gramma for crocheting her trivet in the ladies’ room, I will do that.)
Monkeying about in a women’s stall is unacceptable. Cut that shit out. But there’s always a line because there aren’t enough stalls and going to the bathroom as a lady takes longer than it takes a dude.
WHY? Because we wear crazy-ass shit, like tights.
Men, you put on a pair of tights for an evening and tell me the tights don’t both compress your gut so much you always feel like you have to pee, and that pulling them on and off — without tucking in the back of your damn skirt (oh, you’re also wearing a skirt) — takes longer than 30 seconds.
There’s growing interest in public unisex bathrooms, which I’m all for. The first year, everyone’s in line banging on doors, telling folks to put down the magazine and hurry the fuck up, then all of a sudden, people put down their magazines and hurry the fuck up.
I have a dream, kids, and that dream is to walk directly into a public bathroom stall, high-fiving the person swiftly leaving it as I then also take care of business in an efficient manner.
Well, maybe scratch the high-five; those hands aren’t washed yet.