The Other Sex’s Bathroom

In life, there are many mysteries—is there a God? What happens to us after we die? Which came first, the chicken or the egg? If a tree falls in the woods, and there’s no one around to hear it, does it make a sound? What is the sound of one hand clapping?

But of all these mysteries, there’s none greater than: “What is it like in the girl’s bathroom?”

Growing up, there was much speculation surrounding the ladies room. There were rumors of couches, marble fountains, and tuxedoed bath attendants. At school, the bathrooms were always situated side-by-side. But despite sharing a common wall, there was a fantastic gulf between these two rooms. None of us guys would ever ask the girls what it was like in their bathroom. We were certain the girls had it better, and we didn’t want them to know it. Somehow, but not asking we thought we were letting them know that we too had fantastic amenities and could care less about their fabulous toilet-room.

By our very nature, human beings always seem to think that whatever they don’t have is better. This is known as the “grass is always greener” principal. I think cows are the only other animal to suffer from this envy.

I grew up and grew out of many childish things, but not my curiosity about the ladies bathroom. At 17 I was ordered to clean the bathrooms by my first boss. This onerous/odorous task was dreaded by everyone on staff at the drugstore where I earned my first paycheck. But I was actually looking forward to doing it.

Finally, after all the years of wondering I was about to find out what the ladies room was all about. Sure, I could have sneaked in sooner…but I’m not a pervert. It’s not like I want to watch women take a dump or anything. It was just a forbidden thing.

At long last, I would see if they have a chandelier in each stall or just over the sinks.

As you can imagine, I was more than just a little let-down. There were no fountains or footstools like I’d always imagined just strange metal boxes in the stalls (which I soon learned to dread whenever I was assigned cleaning detail).

Having finally lost its mystique, I quit obsessing about the ladies room and moved onto other things. I hadn’t thought about my bathroom curiosity in quite a while, when I met a lady in the men’s room at Sam’s Club a few weeks ago.

It was a bright, sunny day. I’d gotten dehydrated and decided to drink a liter of water just prior to going shopping with my wife. By the time we made our way to Sam’s (that Mecca of American over-consumption) my bladder was ready to burst. So I ran inside and made bolted for the restrooms. Without being too disgusting (which, in a post about bathrooms is pretty hard), I went in and “got down to business” at one of the urinals.

While I was “getting down,” this elderly black woman shuffled into the men’s room and began examining every nook and cranny. Now, at the risk of sounding (and perhaps being) racist, I’m going to come clean and say that I thought this woman was Rosa Parks. I know that’s fucked up, but when you’re peeing and an old black lady comes shuffling in, you aren’t really thinking straight. For some reason all I could think was, “Oh God! I can’t tell this poor woman to get the hell out of here…I mean for cryin’ out loud, she’s been through so much!” She was wearing this little getup that looked right out of the 1950’s. Her gray wispy hair was mostly pulled back, but a few stray strands were flying wildly around her head. She was also wearing those panty-hose socks. You know, the kind that makes a woman look likes she’s wearing panty-hose. Those things never seem to work, because every woman I see with them on always has them all bunched up around her ankles.

As I stood there, holding my dick and thinking about the best way to let this woman know she was in the wrong place—she was busy checking each stall. At first I thought she was looking for a child (or perhaps an invalid husband) who’d gone in to use the facilities and hadn’t reemerged. But it soon became obvious that this was not the case.

She was talking to herself. Not quite mumbling, not quite whispering…something in between. I thought she was on the phone but she wasn’t—she was just confused. You see, in her mind she WAS in the ladies room.

The strangest ladies room on Earth.

For all you women out there who’ve not been in a men’s room, let me de-mystify it for you. The only difference between yours and ours are the urinals. They put them closest to the door (so we can shoot-in and shoot-out), so it’s very obvious that you are in the men’s room the moment you walk through the door.

And yet, despite walking past the row of gleaming white urinals (and yours truly), this old lady decided that she was STILL somehow in the right room. Once she’d reached the last stall in the row, I’d finished my business and was trying to figure out what to do. I headed over to the sinks and just stared at her. I can only assume that she’s one of these “picky” people and that she was trying to find the “best” toilet for whatever business SHE had to attend to.

“Uh, mama,” I said unable to just wash my hands and leave. “Are you alright?”
She turned around, startled that there was a man in the room.
“Well this is the strangest place….”
“You’re in the men’s room,” I told her. “That’s why there are all these urinals.”

She looked at me as though I’d slapped her. I suddenly felt very guilty, like maybe I should have just washed-up and left her alone.

“Well wait till the girls here about this!” she shouted, then shuffled out of the room. “Oh boy…” she muttered as she passed me.

Bathrooms are all the same--there’s nothing glamorous or wonderful about them. Of course, the only way you’ll ever know is to go and see.