19/12/2024
You know the drill when it comes to public restrooms: there’s always a long line of women waiting patiently, offering polite smiles as they shuffle forward one by one. You join the line, silently praying it moves quickly because you’re on the brink of bursting.
Finally, it’s your turn! You push open the door, checking under the stalls for feet. All occupied. But then, like a miracle, one door opens. You rush forward, narrowly avoiding a collision with the previous occupant, and dash inside.
As soon as you close the door, reality hits: the latch doesn’t work. Of course, it doesn’t. But you’ve waited too long to care. Determined, you figure you’ll hold the door shut with one hand if needed. Next problem? The seat covers are empty. Figures.
You glance at the floor, considering where to place your purse, but no way—it’s not touching that germy surface. Instead, you loop it around your neck like a high-fashion accessory. With no time to waste, you yank down your pants and assume “The Stance.” You know the one: legs bent, hovering over the toilet seat like you’re mid-squat in a workout class.
At first, you feel confident. But after a few seconds, your thighs start to tremble like jelly. You’d love to sit down, but who has time to wipe the seat or meticulously line it with toilet paper? Speaking of toilet paper, you reach for the dispenser… and it’s empty.
Your mom’s voice pops into your head: “If you’d wiped the seat first, you’d have realized there was no toilet paper.” Great. You frantically search your purse (still dangling around your neck) and find a crumpled tissue you used to blow your nose yesterday. It’s roughly the size of a postage stamp.
And then it happens. The stall door, unlatched, flies open as someone gives it a push. The door hits your purse, which swings forward like a wrecking ball, throwing you off balance. You flail, trying to grab the door, but it’s too late—you topple backward into the toilet tank.
“Occupied!” you yelp in sheer panic, reaching for the door. Your tiny tissue falls to the floor, landing in a suspicious puddle. You regain your footing, only to slip and plop down onto the seat itself. Yes, it’s wet. Of course, it’s wet.
Horrified, you spring back up, but the damage is done. Your bare skin has touched every germ imaginable, and your mom’s voice is back: “You don’t know what kind of diseases are on there!”
And then the automatic toilet sensor kicks in. With a vengeful flush, it sprays water everywhere—your butt, your legs, your pride. You grab the toilet paper dispenser for support, half expecting to get sucked into the swirling abyss.
Defeated, you shuffle out of the stall to the sinks, drenched in toilet water. The automatic faucets, naturally, don’t work, so you resort to spitting on your hands and wiping them with a paper towel.
As you exit, you catch a woman in line pointing to your shoe. There it is: a piece of toilet paper trailing behind you like a badge of shame. You peel it off, hand it to her with a wry smile, and say, “You’re going to need this.”
Finally, you spot your husband waiting outside, fresh-faced and relaxed after his 30-second trip to the men’s room. He looks at you, puzzled, and asks, “What took so long? And why is your purse around your neck?”
And that, my friends, is why women take so long in public restrooms. It’s also why we go in pairs—for door duty, purse security, and emergency tissue handoffs.
We’ve all been there.
