Every time I go to a busy public place, I run into the same problem. Part of the issue is my pathetic bladder, which, since it no longer has a uterus to prop it up, tends to complain if it isn’t emptied way too many times a day. It’s rather like using a waterglass for a rainbarrel; it seems just as soon as I empty the thing, it’s filling up again and threatening to run all over the place and potentially flood the house.
We’ve all been there girls, standing awkwardly in the ribbon of desperate women winding itself out the ladies’ room door, squeezing our pelvic floors hard enough to crack a walnut and praying no woman in line doused herself with that perfume we’re allergic to before departing for the mall or movies or airport or funeral service. Since I surrendered my uterus, the unbridled sneeze has become one of my greatest fears. The kids in my classroom give me heck for holding my sneezes in, but they don’t understand that the sneeze itself is not what I’m desperate to contain. Anyway, there we are, waiting in line for one of three or five stalls, knowing at least one is guaranteed to be non-functional for any number of horrifying reasons. We wait, and many of us pray, for a stall to open up before it’s too late. It’s a collective suffering.
It seems men have to actually decide they would like to use the bathroom. I truly can’t recall him ever asking if we can stop at the restroom before we leave wherever we are. I think he pees as often as I brush my teeth, really, and he has never, ever stood outside the bathroom door, prancing awkwardly with his knees pressed together and pleading with me to hurry up in the shower. When I do that same thing, it’s not a special occasion or the result of a particularly ambitious glass of water: it’s just another Thursday.
For whatever reason, men don’t need to pee often. My own suspicion is the existence of a secret reservoir yet undiscovered by medical science. I’d like to mentioned in the urology journals when this comes around, please. My theory actually solves many of the mysteries regarding the sexual dimorphism of our species. Clearly, the only reason men are bigger and stronger than women is their need to possess the strength and structure to haul their giant pee tanks around. My guess is the reservoir exists somewhere up in the chest cavity, sort of flat, like those crazy water tank backpacks distance cyclists wear.
You really didn’t expect this discussion tonight, did you?
There is never a line out the door of the men’s room, unless a person finds herself at a football game or somewhere else where lots of men are placed in the presence of lots of beer. That’s the theory anyway, since I have never been to a football game to personally witness the phenomenon. There doesn’t even really seem a be a reason to build men’s washrooms the same size as women’s in most venues: doing so is just engineering wasted space, folks.
If there is never a line for the men’s room, why don’t women pop in there to take care of business? The thought has crossed my mind about a million times, and I have been tempted to just use the bathroom the men aren’t using. Never has this allure been as strong as the time my friend took me to see The Vagina Monologues. The only guy there was the dude sweeping the lobby, and he looked very uncomfortable. There were seven hundred women in line for the bathroom at intermission, and I saw more than one of us eyeing the empty doorway to the men’s room.
I don’t think there’s anything illegal about a woman using the men’s room if she’s feeling desperate, is there? Unlike my elementary school self, I don’t believe there is any special mystery inside, or a complicated task to gain entrance, like the temple in an Indiana Jones movie. Except for the urinals, and the fact that the tampon machines dispense beef jerky and pocket knives, I imagine the men’s room is just like the ladies’.
If I ever do get brave enough to bypass the giant line of women with bobbing eyeballs and stride into the men’s room to relieve myself –wait, if I am desperate enough to use the men’s room, I doubt I’ll be striding. Hmm. If I ever do decide to hobble awkwardly into the men’s room before I pee on my shoes, be assured you’ll read all about it, right here.
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