Skip to main content

What doesn't kill you. Part 1

Finding a public restroom up to even the barest of standards is the bane of my existence. Whether theater or church, school or plane, every step I take and move I make brings further risk of coming into contact with an unpredictable microorganism with which I am certain I would not like to be acqauinted.

One must mentally prepare for any endeavor involving the public restroom or even a private one if too many bathroom-utilizing-people happen to be present.

First, I can't be the only one to consider the damage done to one's shoes alone when the soles are tainted with public restroom floor germs. And each surface threatens to taint one's clothing, or worse still, the uncovered skin bits which may unintentionally bump against the door or wall of a particularly small space.

If these possibilities were not traumatic enough, there's the problem of opening and closing doors. A handle or latch most always requires grabbing. It's so wrong because the problem of when to cleanse the hands then presents itself:
Before, After or Both?
The best possible scenario is the handicap stall/sink combo but the blatant disregard for the guilt associated with using a facility meant for the disabled is perilous. (A rebellious spirit is necessary: "So!" "Who's gonna stop me?" "I'm going in.") I can't be alone in this.

But, thirdly, even in the assumedly cleaner Handicap Stall (or the First Stall if you're still buying into that old wives' tale), one can never be certain what one may find. One may inadvertently follow
a Hoverer,
a Nonflusher
or, worse still,
a small child.

Then, there's the toilet paper conundrum. That is to say: What is to be done in the absence of it? I know I'm not the only one who lives in fear of paper product insufficiency.



Comments

Popular posts from this blog

Just get out the way, and let the gentleman do his thing.

Retired Memphis Police Department Chief Inspector Robert Jones came to my pool party the other day. Over hot dogs and fruit salad, he regaled his grandchildren with tales of his days in Special Services on the police force. That's SWAT to you and me.

Among those anecdotes, he spins a yarn that includes a tear gas capsule hidden on the motor of a car full of pimps and ladies of the night, effectively expelling these law breakers out of a Buick Electra 225, running crazy. Later, he would be appointed Chief Inspector, along with fellow officer James Bolden (who also served MPD director), climbing his way up the career ladder with an excellent work ethic. But, before all that, he was a regular joe on the beat, paying his dues. Only, this fiery, young Irishman was going to do it his way.


They called him The Flame. Not only for his ability to run like one but, there was also that shiny red hair. In his youth, his stubborn independence got him into some trouble so he channeled that and mad…

I was so scared to face my fears.

Why You even trust us with so much, I can't even imagine. We alternate between pumping triumphant fists in the air and rocking quietly in the corner, squeezy eyes and knitty brows, vulnerable to the next thing next. In a matter of weeks, issues that include extreme trauma, mental illness, genetic disorders, and tired, old grudges, which serve to poison the waters, pass through our hands. We stand, arm in arm, carefully considering whether we are meant to dodge or take the shots:What are we supposed to be to learning?
Can we set it gently to the side and move along?
Is this our burden to bear for a season?
Who is wearing hearts on sleeves?
and should we?It's hard to say in a world of emotions but I KNOW our hearts are true. Even in their ugliest states, we keep it real. Sometimes, we're all Daigle, inspired and fortified, but, as many times as not, we're blasting Adele, accidentally alienating the ones we love and raw as can be. Let's just keep the Gungors, Eminems …

You built me palaces out of paragraphs.

You're so sure I don't hear your words. Maybe you think there's too much weary history for me to contend with New & Fun. You hear told of the time before yours and sometimes you feel alone. Maybe you've even wondered if I'm still up to the challenge.
You assume too much, Love Child, because yours are the words I've been waiting for all my life.
So many words.
My time before you taught me to talk less and hear more but I sift through ALL your words and listen for your heart.
Without your words, how could I know that you sometimes say what you don't mean just because you feel too much to articulate?
Without your words, how could I know that you are unsure and insecure about who you might become?
How could I know, were I not listening, that you often hold back because you think it's not quite your time?
Without your words, how could I know how much you root for the underdog with a righteous anger?
Without your words, how could I know that you often …