A Very Public Pet Peeve

Published in The Fauquier Times-Democrat Weekend on July 15, 2011


This may not have happened to you, but it has happened to me recently. Twice. Consider yourself fortunate if this is news to you.


Twice in the past month, I have rushed into the stall of a public restroom. Let’s face it: a woman in her mid-forties who has borne six children does not have the luxury to saunter when met with the need to micturate. (Notice how much more distinguished I sound when I say “micturate” rather than “urinate?”) At this age, that need may come upon you with the urgency of a summer thunderstorm.


Some loftier individuals will disapprove of today’s column topic. They will not understand the concerns of the common man (or woman, in this case) because they probably do not engage in this sort of crass behavior. Doubtless, they have subcontracted out the periodic, mundane task of emptying their bladders. For those stuck in the biological DIY department, you may sympathize with me.


Both times that I stepped into the stall, and not a moment too soon, thank you, I realized that the person (let’s hope I can assume it’s a woman) in the adjacent stall is in the midst of an intense cell phone conversation.


I am in a slight dilemma here, because I’m not sure what exactly Lady-A has been in here to do while she is busy jabbering away, but I know exactly what I am in here to do, and I need to do it…NOW.


My quandary is this: when is it a good time to interject into the flow of their conversation with a flow of my own? Do I aim for the moment when there is maximum chatter or a burst of laughter and hope to be drowned out? Or do I wait for a lull? Oh, wait. The conversation sounds like it might be drawing to a close. If I can hold it just a little longer, I might be able to pee in peace.


But this is a foolish thought. Alas, the compulsive conversationalist who continues talking while poised on the pot (wasn’t that phase supposed to end in the toddler years?) is not planning to relinquish the phone any time soon.


It probably hasn’t been that long, really, but there is little hope of distracting the brain that has been hijacked by a bursting bladder. This is harder still when, there standing before you, is that polished beacon of hope. It promises you relief and to take your burdens (just the very pressing current one, at any rate) away.


My mind flits to the tragic cases of water intoxication: The 28-year-old mother of three who died after drinking vast quantities of water in the “Hold your Wee for a Wii” contest at a radio station in California in 2007. Surely, this sort of torture cannot be healthy for me. I can wait no longer.


The conversation continues next door, while I vacillate about when to flush, unless the decision is usurped from me by the automatic flush. There’s no being sneaky with those industrial toilets accompanied by the inimitable and terrifying whoosh that threatens to swoop away unsecured objects such as purses and small children.


I guess my flush gives “us” away on “our” end of the conversation. In one incident, my staller-caller neighbor finally feels the need to divulge the source of the embarrassing sounds, “Oh, yeah – I’m callin’ from the bathroom here.”


Having just peed and flushed through someone else’s conversation, I feel awkward and ridiculous. I’m no Miss Manners, but what is wrong with me? Why am I worried about public bathroom phone etiquette when every sound I just produced has just been broadcast? As greedy as I always am for a bigger audience, this is not the way in which I envisioned getting it.


I realize that public restrooms are just that: public. But most of us are there to attend to something that is relatively private. (The exception is parents with toddlers in tow, who, by contract, must follow you to continue their monologue, check what you are doing, or just make sure you won’t disappear.) The rest of us expect privacy, even though that is a modern concept.


In Ancient Rome, the toilets were public. The latrines were conveniently located so that you could engage in conversation with your neighbor and perhaps drum up a dinner invitation. Ah, the wisdom of the ancients. We seem to have come full circle.