Here I sit, broken-hearted
I am currently experiencing the annoying sensation of having to poop without the ability to take care of business. I do, in fact, have the physical ability to poop (natch), but circumstances are such that I am denied the promise of poop.
The first time I leave my desk to go to the bathroom, someone else is grabbing one of the bathroom keys to go (and who wants an audience in these situations?). Strike one.
I wait some minutes and then try again. Both bathroom keys are nestled in their little basket by our office’s exit. So far so good. Per usual practice when Number Two is involved, I should have taken both keys to ensure some privacy. Alas, I do not…which, it turns out, doesn’t even matter because when I get to the bathroom someone is already in one of the three stalls—the prized stall, no less. I couldn’t take the second-best stall in the middle because it is not cool to park it right next to someone when there’s another stall further away. So I go in the third stall against my will. It is the handicapped stall, which I really hate using because what if someone in a wheelchair (literally) rolls up? Then you’re an asshole—a lesson I’ve learned.
So I sit in the Forbidden Stall and wait for the woman in the Coveted Stall to finish up and get the hell out. I do the little peek-under-the-door, thinking it could be someone I don't know, and if ya gotta go, ya gotta go. The shoes, though, are those of a colleague. Stymied! (In the case of colleagues in the bathroom, when ya gotta go, ya gotta hold it anyway. (Seeing the colleagues shoes sadly reminds me that there are THREE keys and not just two that live in that little basket by our office’s exit.) I wait. She’s just wiping and wiping and wiping FOREVER. I try to think about what she could possibly need to be wiping so much for until I (very quickly) realize that that’s not something I want to think about. Defeated, I get up and leave, cursing her the whole time. Strike Two.
Walking down the hall back to the office, another colleague has the third key in her hand. Third as in Strike Three.
They say that writing helps you get out what you need to.
I disagree.
The first time I leave my desk to go to the bathroom, someone else is grabbing one of the bathroom keys to go (and who wants an audience in these situations?). Strike one.
I wait some minutes and then try again. Both bathroom keys are nestled in their little basket by our office’s exit. So far so good. Per usual practice when Number Two is involved, I should have taken both keys to ensure some privacy. Alas, I do not…which, it turns out, doesn’t even matter because when I get to the bathroom someone is already in one of the three stalls—the prized stall, no less. I couldn’t take the second-best stall in the middle because it is not cool to park it right next to someone when there’s another stall further away. So I go in the third stall against my will. It is the handicapped stall, which I really hate using because what if someone in a wheelchair (literally) rolls up? Then you’re an asshole—a lesson I’ve learned.
So I sit in the Forbidden Stall and wait for the woman in the Coveted Stall to finish up and get the hell out. I do the little peek-under-the-door, thinking it could be someone I don't know, and if ya gotta go, ya gotta go. The shoes, though, are those of a colleague. Stymied! (In the case of colleagues in the bathroom, when ya gotta go, ya gotta hold it anyway. (Seeing the colleagues shoes sadly reminds me that there are THREE keys and not just two that live in that little basket by our office’s exit.) I wait. She’s just wiping and wiping and wiping FOREVER. I try to think about what she could possibly need to be wiping so much for until I (very quickly) realize that that’s not something I want to think about. Defeated, I get up and leave, cursing her the whole time. Strike Two.
Walking down the hall back to the office, another colleague has the third key in her hand. Third as in Strike Three.
They say that writing helps you get out what you need to.
I disagree.
posted by starpower at 12:17 PM
5 Comments:
Too funny - I almost spat enchilladas on my monitor.
I feel your pain. One toilet for 40+ teachers. Ugh.
Jeez, it's all so complicated. I just go and hope for the best.
I'm almost in a worse situation, as we have ONE one-person bathroom, convieniently located in the F-ING MIDDLE of like, ten cubicles. There might as well be a mariachi band lining the pathway, announcing imminent pooping. I always pretend to be getting something out of my car, so I can use the courtyard pooper.
Here is sit -- BUMMED. Throw your loyal readers a new post, yo!
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