There is something so sacred about certain places. Churches. Cemeteries. Libraries. Small bookstores.
Once I enter that swinging door that separates me from the rest of the world, it is purely me-time. I want my bathroom time to be about one thing, and one thing only. Ok. Sometimes two things. But that’s beside the point.
One thing that I absolutely cannot stand is bathroom meetings. They are always so awkward, unless it’s your very best friend in the world. I know what we are both about to do or have just done, and I don’t really want to talk about it. If I hear the door swing open and I think I won’t have enough time to make a hasty getaway, I sit. And I’m not even kidding. I’ve had battles with people that probably don’t even know it, and a few who do know it, because they are on my level.
I’ve also encountered a new breed now that I’ve been working in an office for the past several months: The Stall Talker.
I remember one of my first Stall Talkers at The Magazine. It was another intern, and we met at the front bathroom door. She followed me in. I made small talk and then proceeded to enter my stall.
But she wasn’t finished.
“So what are you guys doing this weekend?” she asked, as I was in mid-stream.
Honestly? Can’t this wait?
“Um, not sure,” I replied. You also have to think about the fact that there are other people in there, too. For Pete’s sake, there were about 10 stalls total.
“Well, we’re having a party if you’re interested” —pause, flush— “just give me a call.”
I was mortified.
My new company is no different. I was in the stall of the mere three bathroom facility, when the woman next to me began spouting off.
“Oh, great. I hate it when people use the last of the TP. Don’t you? I just hate it. Luckily there’s an unopened roll. Now I have to replace it. At least I didn’t get caught without, you know? Oh, what cute shoes!”
I had no choice but to respond as best I could. Which in this case, was a shaky “Mmm-hmm.”
Let’s keep the commode conversations to a minimum, people.