Guys, I’m freaking out. Today, when I was at the factory outlet mall, I needed to use the restroom. Generally, I tend to avoid public restrooms like the plague, because, well, they are filled with foul smells and people with leprosy. I’m not even kidding. Just ugh. Even Starbucks bathrooms are questionable these days. There’s just nothing quite like your own bathroom, your own germs, and your own smells.
There’s something more. It isn’t just that every single time, I shit-you-not, every.single.time I walk into a public restroom someone just unloaded their barrio burrito from hell, it’s that I have a fear of vomitting. Hearing it, seeing it, smelling it, knowing it’s happening. Just no.
I’m the kind of teacher who, when one of my students throws up, looks like they are about to throw up, or comes out of the bathroom a sickly shade of green, I’m out the door, down the street, gone. Nope. Nope. Nope.
I’m the friend who will leave your drunk ass in the bar bathroom if you’re puking. I don’t even care. Maybe it sounds cruel, but I always tell the bartender to hail you a cab. So, it’s OK.
I’m also this girlfriend. Yup.
I had my boyfriend help me recreate one of my favorite memes. Even getting this close is questionable. To add to the effect, he made pretend gagging sounds and all that fun stuff. Great work, babe.
So, back to the bathroom nightmare today. There was a woman in the bathroom making extremely questionable noises. I’m always hypersensitive to the noises that go on in the stalls next to me. So much as a cough, and my heart starts beating faster and I break out into a sweat. When I hear anything other than tinkle tinkle, I freak the fuck out.
Forcing myself to accept the very real fact that a foot away from me someone was upchucking was unthinkable. Thus, I decided to make up what she was doing instead. So, the woman in.the.very.next.stall was either:
A. Dropping bowling balls into the toilet, which would account for the impressive splashing sounds
B: Plunging the toilet, exuberantly, which would account for the heaving breathing
C: Having a watermelon seed spitting contest, which would account for the spitting
I practically flew out of that bathroom. The damn bathroom at the mall is at the end of this winding, endless hallway. The whole way, I ran, breathless, sweating, shaking.
It felt like I was never going to see the light of day again. Finally, finally, I saw the light, exited, found Bath & Body Works and tried to forget about my worst nightmare come true.
Tag: public bathrooms
Travel Movements
Am I the only one who stresses about the bathroom situation at airports and in *gasp* airplanes?
Is it just me who plans, or tries to plan “movements” so as to avoid the flying germ coffin in the sky?
I positively detest using the airplane bathroom. I don’t think detest is a strong enough word. Loath? Does that emphasize my hate and horror enough? I think I’ll go with ‘detest’, it sounds more full of disgust.
What I despise about the bathroom is that it’s more like an entryway coat closet, in a home for small people, than a restroom.
It’s absolutely not a restroom, anyway. There is no resting once in its claustrophobic grip. Just to get your pants down, you practically have to molest all four walls, with every part of your body.
I’m the kind of person who prefers to have no part of my body touch any part of a bathroom. It’s a challenge. It’s an art form. I hover, I flush with my foot, I will kick the door down to get out. Anything to touch nothing.
Why are the bathrooms so fucking small? I mean, really? I could easily give up the snack station for a larger bathroom. Who needs shitty peanuts and the worst watered-down soda when you could use a bathroom that you don’t have to have sex with to use? I’m for a larger bathroom, hands down.
Right along with my fear of public bathrooms, be it a horrifying porta poop or a nasty shit box in the sky, I fear pooping in public. Period. I want to get in and out as fast as humanly possible. Diddle doddling around waiting for the deed to be done, is far, far too dangerous in a bathroom where someone else, a stranger, is also doing the deed right next to me. No thanks.
I can’t relax enough to poop when someone could possibly hear the dreaded ‘splash’. Nope. No way. I’m already feeling the anxiety coming on.
Call me a freak. Call me high maintenance. Call me what you will, but I can’t poop comfortably unless I have my In Touch, my Costco toilet paper, my room spray, and my personally cleaned toilet.
You can say vacations are a bitch in regards to the bathroom situation.
