Friday, January 24, 2003
Dear Diary:

Normally I'm not particularly troubled about using most public restrooms as long as they're clean, but clean or not, I have this weird phobia about gas station restrooms.

Normally I make sure that I use the restroom before I leave my gym but today I forgot. (Ah, the wonderful world of on-line writing where our motto is: No, Really, There Can NEVER Be Too Much Information And Thanks So Much For Dropping By.)

Half an hour later, when I pulled in to the gas station to top up the Marnmobile, my bladder basically informed me that one false move and everyone inside the vehicle drowns. With great trepidation I got the key to gas station restroom and ventured in.

Now there are three basic approaches to female urination: you have your sit directly on the seat crowd, your squatters who hover above the seat, and finally your liners, those who carefully line the seat with toilet paper before sitting on said seat.

The cognescenti will tell you that the squatters are subdivided into two groups:

First you have those who hover without lifting the seat (and since aiming is tricky for a woman at the best of times, these are the people I consider the Jackson Pollocks of the female urination world since they tend to spatter everywhere, including on the seat and floor).

Second, you have those who lift the seat before hovering, increasing the target area and thus the odds that they will actually hit the target. I consider them the Calamity Janes of female urination because of their superb marksmanship.

Well, I am not a sitter, nor am I squatter. Oh, no, I am part of group three or as I think of them, The Seat Decorators.

If I bothered to consider the situation rationally, I would have to admit that lining a toilet seat with a layer of the semi-transparent extremely flimsy one-ply toilet paper supplied by most gas station restrooms offers just about zero microbe protection.

And yet I do it.

Now the final part of the ritual, after all bathroom needs have been met, involves gingerly knocking the toilet paper liner off the seat into the toilet bowl using the toe of my footwear (since actually touching the paper with my hands would negate Its Awesome Germ Fighting Powers.)

So I lifted the toe of my boot to do that. Except that the toe of my boot was wet with snow that had half congealed to slush in the heat of the restroom and thus the toilet paper, the moment it came in contact with the boot, stuck to it as if it had been crazy glued in place.

Fine.

I shook my boot, hoping to dislodge it. Oh, yes, that dislodged it, not from my boot, but from the toilet seat. Before my horrified eyes it floated languorously down, right on to the floor of the bathroom where it met and became one with a thin trail of muddy slush left by previous occupants trudging in and out of the restroom.

Being as it was the semi-transparent extremely flimsy one-ply toilet paper supplied by most gas stations, it immediately began to dissolve. Right there. On the floor. It became a small snake of semi-dissolved toilet paper stained a liquid brown.

It Was Not A Pretty Sight.

I know, because I spent quite some time contemplating said sight. Unfortunately, despite my best efforts, willing it to disappear simply did not work. I think all three of my loyal readers can well imagine my bitterness over THAT.

Fortunately, this is a restroom that still uses paper towels. Murmuring a stream of unending epithets under my breath, I mopped up my Awesome Germ Fighting Barrier from the disgustingly dirty slush trail. I'm sure that in the process of doing that I came into contact with approximately 10 bazillion more cooties than I would have had I just parked my buttal region directly on the toilet seat.

So next time my bladder pulls that big, "To pee or not to pee, that is the question" soliloquy on me I'm telling you now, if there's nothing but a gas station restroom nearby, you'll be able to pick me out easily.

I'll be the woman walking with her knees locked.

--Marn

Mileage on the Marnometer 44.77 miles (76.86 kilometers)
Goal for 2003: 500 miles - 804.5 kilometers

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Want to delve into my sordid past?
She's mellllllllllllllting - Wednesday, Feb. 15, 2012 - Back off, Buble - Monday, Dec. 19, 2011 - Dispersed - Monday, Nov. 28, 2011 - Nothing comes for free - Monday, Nov. 21, 2011 - None of her business - Friday, Nov. 04, 2011 -


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