While progressing through the years, I have had several times when I have felt my age. These events are never really big or Ramifying and I always come out of them feeling a little better about myself and my advanced age. This, of course, is not the case when I attempt to use a public restroom. Every time I have tried I have felt older than I actually am.
Today’s blog post is about one of the times I have used a public restroom and the madness that ensued during the event. The main fact to remember is, I rarely use a public restroom to do anything more than urinate. Ok, remembering that, let’s start this story.
I work in a large eleven floor office building in downtown Las Vegas. My job occupies offices on the eighth and ninth floor of the building and I work on the eighth floor. The last two floors of the building are empty and I always have an issue with people being able to smell anything that’s going on in the bathrooms on the eighth. These other floors give me a chance to use the bathroom without having to feel self conscious, if an emergency ever occurs.
Yesterday was one such case and it all started out so cool. My day was breezing by, I was writing for work with a fervor, when a stirring occurred in the middle of the excitement. This was not a normal stirring, no, things felt quite bubbly down below. Thinking it’s just a little gas, I ease out one to relieve some tension and get some room. This is when things begin to go horribly wrong.
The fart is one of those rotten from the release kind of secrets and it isn’t a secret. As soon as the foul flatulence hits the room, the entire group around me are notified of its origin. Poof! This would normally be something that I could laugh off and feel ok about, but in this job I’m one of the oldest people in the building. The jokes were quick and immediate, and it wasn’t long before I was hit with some jokes about checking my depends.
I laugh off the jokes and try to regain some semblance of dignity by continuing my work, but the stirrings aren’t finished. My stomach rumbles again, informing me that the tension reliever was more of a harbinger. Things are about to get real. My fingers halt mid type and hover over the keyboard as I try to assess the situation.
I try to gauge the importance of this issue and animations of the building on fire, go flying through my mind. I try to leave my desk covertly but another hostage escapes while I’m getting up and the laughter follows me out of the office.
The issues increase when I make it out of the office. I can choose to go to the bathroom on this floor, hoping that it’s just a flurry of flatulence instead of a full on deluge, or I could try to make it to the tenth floor on the elevator.
I choose option B and make it to the tenth floor without issue. I run into the bathroom and blessed be, it’s empty. I know you’re saying, but if the floor is empty, why would the bathroom be full? Well there are others, who also see these two extra floors, as a good place for a safe evacuation of terrorist.
I close the bathroom door and my next issue greets me. The damned invention that is also known as a toilet seat cover. As I have explained before, I’m a bit of a neophyte when it comes to public bathroom usage and seeing these cursed paper protectors are often a problem, when I do use the restroom. Listening to the advice I was given by my wife, I put down two of the covers. I was told that doing this will alleviate the sticking to my butt issue I have had with the contraptions.
Fast forward twenty minutes and the problems continue. I still have the seat cover stuck to my ass but now there are two and one has feces floating on the end. Yes, that’s correct, I used the cover incorrectly. I stand a little and scrape the paper off my butt with a piece of tissue. Pieces of the soiled cover fling off the dangling paper and flop into my exposed underwear. The screams that erupt in my head could shatter glass. I try to retrieve the offensive piece of cover with another piece of tissue but it’s not willing to come easily.
It’s clear to me that I need something stronger than tissue to get this mess off. Not to mention cleaning the inevitable smear that’s under the cover. So I exit the bathroom and waddle over to the next issue I have with public bathrooms, electronic soap dispensers. I wave my hand in front of one of the offending dispensers and nothing happens. I do it again, this time slower, but still nothing happens. I waddle over, pants down at my ankles, to the other soap dispenser and wave my hand, very slowly in front of the dispenser and blessed be, soap slips out; but I forgot to get the damn paper towels.
I wave my hand in front of the paper towel dispenser and nothing happens. I try again and it’s the same. I follow the same technique I used with the soap, but the towels aren’t as easy. I check to see if any towels are in either dispenser and discover that they are both empty. Great, just great, I think as I try to figure out a solution that doesn’t involve the only option that has come to me.
I waddle out of the men’s bathroom, pants still at my ankles and enter the women’s bathroom, thinking that things can’t get worse, wrong. Flushing the toilet in one of the ladies bathroom stalls is a female coworker finishing the evacuation of hostages.
That’s all I have for this story. Being totally honest, none of this happened but it’s something that I’ve thought of while evacuating some terrorist in an emergency. I hope you all enjoyed it.