Nope, this is not going to be one of those informative blog posts you’ll debate over with your colleagues tomorrow morning by the water cooler. And nope, I don’t think it will be very educative either, so perhaps reading it to your kids before bed time is not the best idea. It’s just, I’ve been struggling with this problem recently, and since it’s a bit too delicate/gross to discuss with my friends (assuming I have any friends, which we all know is highly unlikely), I have no choice but to rant about it here, much to your delight I’m sure. So here it goes.
My very pressing problem has to do with restrooms. In fact, it has to do with the staff restrooms at the company where I’m currently moderately happily employed. And more particularly, it’s all about the ladies room on my floor. Now don’t get me wrong. This ladies room is absolutely miraculous. An oasis of peace and irreproachable hygiene. But all this doesn’t change the fact that it’s completely crazy.
Yup, I said crazy. Now let me explain.
I’m the kind of person who doesn’t like to make friends in the restroom. It’s true, I’m not much into making friends anywhere, for that matter, but restrooms in particular are not at the top of my socializing friendly places list. Of course, I live a life of compromises. This also applies in the case of my ladies room activities. The doors and separating walls are flimsy. There’s an island of sinks and mirrors where everybody meets after they’ve finished. I mean, I’m not savage: I say hello, I attempt to chitchat, it’s all good. But while I’m in there, while I’m in the freaking stall, I don’t want to make friends.
Imagine this scenario: female geek in restroom stall. Somebody walks into the restroom, then into the adjacent stall. And starts talking. Loudly. To themselves. Giggling, asking questions and answering them. Or repeating some presentation speech. Or just whispering an unintelligible discourse. Then giggling again. Our female geek stops breathing. She imagines being bludgeoned to death in a restroom stall by a giggling restroom serial killer. And who can blame her? I mean, the stall doors don’t reach the floor, you can see the shoes of the person inside. The maniac must know she’s not alone in the room. And yes, she must be a maniac, or she wouldn’t be putting on this show while people are doing their business two steps away.
Now, I’m not one to cave in the face of mortal danger. Obviously, the first couple of times it happened I was terrified, and seriously considered never going to the ladies room again. Then it hit me that it wouldn’t be the most practical solution to my problem, and I decided I’d take the bull by the horns and figure the matter out. So I investigated and eventually identified the maniac. A perfectly normal looking lady I’d sometimes bump into by the coffee machine (She never talks to herself there, I assume there are rules when it comes to crazy chitchat, as with all things in life.). In the end I decided she didn’t look particularly dangerous, but I’d keep an eye on her anyway.
Then one day, I heard a different voice in the stall next to mine, and after relentless detective work I managed to identify a second offender.
Now I’m starting to think it’s me.
I must be the crazy one, there’s no other explanation. I bet it’s the new, fashionable thing to do. No wonder I had no idea, I’ve never been up to date on ladies room fashion. Too bad for me, huh? And you know what? With my luck, soon enough we’ll know that bathroom crazy talk is in fact the trademark of super duper successful people, ones who go on to rule the world. Parents will encourage their kids to talk to themselves in the loo. They’ll be teaching it in schools. The Idiot’s Guide to Loo Monologues will become an all times bestseller. All this while I just sit here, silently, minding my own business. Life is strange that way.