Womentoiletopia
At some point, everyone experiences something life-changing. Sometimes it’s because of a traumatic event, sometimes it’s because you’ve read a really neat book, and sometimes it’s because you suddenly discover you’re not hard of hearing, you just needed to cut your hair.
My life-changing event happened because I was in public and had to go to the bathroom.
Using a public bathroom is uncomfortable enough, partially because you never know who’s going to be in there*, partially because you have no idea where the facilities are, but mainly because there’s always the chance that something life-changing will happen and you certainly don’t want it to happen in a public bathroom.
My life-changing event happened when I walked by the women’s bathroom and the door was open.
I froze. It was like one of those movies where a portal opens to another dimension. I’ve never seen that dimension—Womentoiletopia. I had no idea what it was like in there. Would there be pyramids? Would there be cyborgs? Would Charlton Heston be screaming “You blew it up!” at the Statue of Liberty?
Can’t look, can’t look, can’t look, ran through my head because in modern America, Womentoiletopia is actually called the Sexual Harassment Zone, so I wasn’t supposed to look.
I looked.
To a guy who’s minding his own business, not intending to walk by the women’s restroom and finding the door open, this is like getting free tickets to a ball game. It’s an invitation. I had to RSVP by looking. So, unless I’d opened that door with my mind …
Wait, I didn’t open the door with my mind, did I? No, I’m pretty sure I was thinking about football.
… I was perfectly safe from any potential lawsuits or slaps to the face.
There was, thankfully, a wall separating my view from the place where the women come in to do their business, so what I saw was mostly a flat barrier of pale green. Mostly. Inside the door and sticking out from a corner were, for some odd reason, a desk and a chair. A desk and a chair?
This was my life-changing event. A guy’s bathroom is white and gray with plenty of porcelain. Occasionally the local sports page will be tacked up in front of the urinals out of extreme courtesy, and it’s usually a bit on the cool side. The only chairs are ones with handles and there are no desks anywhere.
Ladies, what do you do in public bathrooms? Your taxes? Do you write long letters to old friends about how clean the facility is and, Jane, you really should drive down here and try it? Or is it an emergency desk? Did I miss the sign, “In case of mice or rapid overflow, jump here”?
I stood for a second in the kind of baffled state grazing animals get whenever they see anything at all.
What possible use could a desk and chair have in a women’s toilet? And what was I, as a guy, missing out on? Maybe a public bathroom is the best possible place for filling out personal property assessment forms and I’ve been missing out all these years.
I snapped out of my daze and walked away from the open door before I got arrested.
But I had to ask, what other things are in women’s bathrooms that should be in other parts of the building?
The answers I received bothered me.
Some women’s bathrooms have a couch, others have comfortable chairs and end tables for holding up books and magazines and ferns.
These are not bathrooms. They’re lounges. Stick a wet bar in one and it would be a members-only club.
Ladies, I’m sorry I saw Womentoiletopia, but your world doesn’t belong to my universe. I’d like you to put it back in whatever dimension it came from … or at least keep the door shut.
*About 10 years ago in a public bathroom, former St. Louis Cardinal offensive lineman and NFL Hall of Famer Dan Dierdorf stepped up to the urinal next to mine. It wasn’t the fact that someone famous was standing next to me in a bathroom that made me uncomfortable; it was just an odd place to ask for an autograph. I told him no.
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Jason’s book of ghost stories, “Haunted Missouri: A Ghostly Guide to the Show-Me State’s Most Spirited Spots,” is available from amazon.com, barnesandnoble.com or tsup.truman.edu. Visit Jason’s Web site, www.jasonoffutt.com, for his other books.
