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  I hate public washrooms. For a function everyone has to perform several times a day, you’d think washrooms would be pleasurable places to visit – tasteful decor, velvety tissue paper and a flat-screen TV on every stall door.
Instead they are – well, you know what they are. And being female means my alternatives are limited. Men can just flip out their best buddy and go anywhere. No need to hunt down a secluded bush in the park and hover in the breeze with their pants tangled around their ankles.
I always need to go at the worst moment. Whenever a pilot switches on the ‘Seatbelt’ sign and demands everyone returns to their seats, a ‘Need to Pee’ sign flips on in my head. Ten minutes into a long theatre performance I need to go, and usually every half hour after that. The train station at 12:01 am when the public washrooms are locked at midnight. After every three sips of beer. And having made it to the washroom in time, relief does not always follow.  During one washroom trip at my local bar, I find a woman bent over the washbasin cleaning her teeth. Why? Has she been drinking battery acid all night? The washroom is crawling with other people’s germs and she’s waving a toothbrush around. I can’t pee to the sound of brushing. Great, now she’s flossing.
I’m hiding in the stall praying for the paranoid dental hygienist to leave. Other women are waiting in line and probably think I’m suffering from some disturbing digestive problem. Now I can’t pee as I’m worrying about what everyone is thinking. I can’t go so I can’t leave. I recall the story about a woman who sat on a toilet for two years. Could I beat her record? The toilet roll dispenser is naturally empty except for the cardboard roll. From bitter previous experience I know that shiny cardboard has no absorbent properties. The cross-legged lineup outside is growing agitated. Pissing mission aborted. I rush from the stall and out the door before anyone can identify me as the incontinent lavatory loiterer. Avoiding any further liquid intake, my night is thus ruined. In my next life I am coming back as a man. Or a camel. |
Tiggy
