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ISN'T THIS THE TRUTH
??????
When you have to visit a public bathroom, you
usually find a line of women, so you smile politely and take
your place. Once it's your turn, you check for feet under the
stall doors. Every stall is occupied.
Finally, a
door opens and you dash in, nearly knocking down the woman
leaving the stall.
You get in
to find the door won't latch. It doesn't matter, the wait has
been so long you are about to wet your pants! The dispenser
for the modern "seat covers" (invented by someone's Mom, no
doubt) is handy, but empty. You would hang your purse on the
door hook, if there was one, but there isn't - so you
carefully, but quickly drape it around your neck, (Mom would
turn over in her grave if you put it on the FLOOR! ), yank
down your pants, and assume "The Stance".
In this
position your aging, toneless thigh muscles 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".
To take your
mind off your trembling thighs, you reach for what you
discover to be the empty toilet paper dispenser. In your mind,
you can hear your mother's voice saying, "Honey, if you had
tried to clean the seat, you would have KNOWN there was no
toilet paper!" Your thighs shake more.
You remember
the tiny tissue that you blew your nose on yesterday - the one
that's still in your purse. (Oh yeah, the purse around your
neck, that now, you have to hold up trying not to strangle
yourself at the same time). That would have to do. You crumple
it in the puffiest way possible. It's still smaller than your
thumbnail.
Someone
pushes your door open because the latch doesn't work. The door
hits your purse, which is hanging around your neck in front of
your chest, and you and your purse topple backward against the
tank of the toilet. "Occupied!" - you scream, as you reach for
the door, dropping your precious, tiny, crumpled tissue in a
puddle on the floor, lose your footing altogether, and slide
down directly onto the TOILET SEAT. It is wet, of course. You
bolt up, knowing all too well that it's too late. Your bare
bottom has made contact with every imaginable germ and life
form on the uncovered seat because YOU never laid down toilet
paper - not that there was any, even if you had taken time to
try. You know that your mother would be utterly appalled if
she knew, because, you're certain her bare bottom never
touched a public toilet seat because, frankly, dear, "You just
don't KNOW what kind of diseases you could get."
By this
time, the automatic sensor on the back of the toilet is so
confused that it flushes, propelling a stream of water like a
fire hose against the inside of the bowl that sprays a fine
mist of water that covers your butt and runs down your legs
and into your shoes. The flush somehow sucks everything down
with such force that you grab onto the empty toilet paper
dispenser for fear of being dragged in, too.
At this
point, you give up. You're soaked by the spewing water and the
wet toilet seat. You're exhausted You try to wipe with a gum
wrapper you found in your pocket and then slink out
inconspicuously to the sinks.
You can't
figure out how to operate the faucets with the automatic
sensors, so you wipe your hands with spit and a dry paper
towel and walk past the line of women still
waiting.
You are no
longer able to smile politely to them. A kind soul at the very
end of the line points out a piece of toilet paper trailing
from your shoe. (Where was that when you NEEDED it??) You yank
the paper from your shoe, plunk it in the woman's hand and
tell her warmly, "Here, you just might need
this."
As you exit,
you spot your hubby, who has long since entered, used, and
left the men's restroom. Annoyed, he asks, "What took you so
long, and why is your purse hanging around your
neck?"
This is
dedicated to women everywhere who deal with public restrooms
(rest??? you've GOT to be kidding!!). It finally explains to
men what really does take us so long. It also answers their
other commonly asked questions about why women go to the
restroom in pairs. It's so the other gal can hold the door,
hang onto your purse and hand you Kleenex under the
door!
This HAD to
be written by a woman! No one else could describe it so
accurately!
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