Allow me to lift the veil (or better yet skirt in this case) on one of the most prolific and powerful myths that has been perpetuated for eons. I hate to say it, ladies, but sometimes you disgust me. On the street we (at least most of us) look very polished, very nice. Every strand of hair in place, every brush of makeup well measured. One may believe that the clean, orderly way we portray ourselves is also reflected in the environment we use to get to this level of admiration. That is the myth. In reality, the women’s restroom is a disaster zone. Men’s rooms, from what I’ve heard, are no day at the spa either, but at least that’s expected. Men are gross. They burp and scratch themselves in public. They have hair growing haphazardly out of their necks, ears and knuckles. No one expects a men’s room to smell like peaches. Well, the same goes for the women’s room. While our own private bathrooms might be a neat and clean oasis, the public bathrooms we share are disorderly mud pits.
Whenever I have to enter a public toilet there’s a full, rigorous checklist of safety precautions I have to stick to so I don’t touch anything that might make me ill (figuratively as well as literally). I have to tentatively clean the seat in a way where I don’t actually touch the bowl. This would be necessary because the seat tends to be covered in…shall we say “spray.” After that, I have to be extremely careful about where I place my feet because the floor is always, always covered in puddles of God only knows what. I try to keep my pants from touching any part of the porcelain (because who wants whatever that is dripping off the side to rub off on their pants!) and if the situation is really bad, I just hover over the toilet so that no part of me or my clothing makes any real contact with the soiled contraption at all. Of course when all is said and done, I flush with my foot because there’s absolutely no way I’m grabbing onto something another woman may have after touching her nether regions…or worse.
It’s a circus act, really. I have to rely on keen eyesight, balance, coordination, and spatial orientation just so I don’t accidentally end up with some other women’s mess splotched on my clothing. And that’s just in the stall! Leaving the bathroom is like becoming a doctor about to enter a sterile surgery. After I scrub down my hands, I hold them up in front of my chest, bent at the elbows, so I can use one of the elbows to push on the door handle to exit this God forsaken hell hole.
Men always wonder why women go to the bathroom in pairs. They think it’s so we can talk about how the date is going or chat about that woman at the other table or maybe some other random gossip while gussying ourselves up again. No! We go because venturing into a public bathroom requires help. It’s a tandem act of Cirque de Soleil proportions…that is, if you want to make it out feeling at least somewhat confident that you’re not any dirtier than when you went in.
Don’t let our style, poise and polished exterior fool you guys. Women are disgusting creatures.