Non-hygiene-related bathroom nightmares and how I survived

seattle.curbed.com

Last week’s “Scariest Moment Ever” was a swan-based monster movie that could have ended with me kick-boxing a majestic creature, but instead ended with me walking away at a casual pace. This week’s “Scariest Moment Ever” was more of the psychological thriller or crazed murderer variety.

As anyone who’s followed this blog for more than a week or two knows, interesting things happen typically only to me in one of two places, the gym or the bathroom. Sometimes both. Those are the real doozies. Sadly, this one is set exclusively in the bathroom, so do whatever you need to do to prepare yourself mentally for that.

In the interest of maintaining some dignity and not grossing anyone out to completely, I’ll keep the scene-setting to a minimum. Let’s just say, I was sitting in the bathroom at work, doing what a man does in that position. I heard another party enter the restroom and relieve himself at one of the urinals. I believe he washed his hands and then went for the paper towels. So far, so good. This mysterious, hygienic stranger, utilized the trashcan, presumably on his way out the door and then it happened: the lights went out.

Bathroom horror stories: Unclean hands on the frontline

makobiscribe.com

The old saying goes that the eyes are the windows to a person’s soul, but I think the bathroom is a much more direct route.

            Heck, people lie with their eyes all the time.

I’m going to keep making eye contact and blinking at you to indicate I’m listening, but in reality I’m thinking who would win in a race between a turtle and sloth.

Bathrooms though, those don’t lie nearly as often. They tell you a lot about who a person really is, and in my experience, a lot of people are really gross.

Every so often at work, I’ll find myself pooping. Actually, that’s probably the worst way to put that. It makes it sound like sometimes I’m just sitting at my desk and suddenly poop starts coming out.

No, I’ll poop at work. In the bathroom, like we’re supposed to.

Anyway, so I’ll be there, in the stall, pooping, and sometimes another fellow will come in to use the urinal.

I’ve learned a great number of horrible and terrifying things about co-workers based solely on observing them through the gap between the stall door and the wall and also with my ears.

The most horrible-est and terrifying-est? It’s not how many people don’t wash their hands after handling their business in the restroom. Or how many people who I’m sure I’ve shaken hands with who don’t wash their hands.

No the worst part, the kind of knowledge that will make you start randomly pooping at your desk, is how many frontline people who I can only assume shake a metric ton of hands during their 9-5s don’t wash their hands.

We’re talking company representative types. People who interview job-seekers and lead meetings.

These are people who shake so many hands all day that they should be wearing Spider-Man-esque web slingers on their wrists, only instead of webs these things should shoot Purel directly onto their palms. I mean, I’m no giant fan of Purel, but that just sounds like basic hygiene.

Doors? What doors? Apocalyptic breaches of bathroom etiquette

dotteddesign.blogspot.com

I’ve seen more naked guys than the gay equivalent of Wilt Chamberlain. Or the female equivalent of Wilt Chamberlain for that matter.  

Maybe that statement needs some context.

I’ve been an avid gym-goer for several years now. I go early in the morning, pump a little iron as the kids say and then go to work and sit on my butt all day, completely undoing whatever progress I’d made earlier. You know, because it’s important to maintain the status quo. 

Anyway, if there’s one thing you learn by going to gyms during the hours most frequented by an older crowd, it's that old people have no shame. They give zero craps.

So pretty quickly you get used to the idea of seeing an old dude brushing his teeth at a sink while his bait and tackle rests on the counter.

You get used to it and you also make a mental note to keep your own tooth brush as far away from any and all surfaces in a locker room as if the toothbrush was your daughter and the surfaces were Justin Bieber - after he’d had a bunch of old man balls rubbed all over him.

Now I want to make it clear that being naked in a locker room doesn't bother me. It’s what it’s there for. I’m frequently naked in locker rooms and occasionally in other rooms, as well. 

But being a repressed, Catholic-raised prude at heart, the thing that does get to me is this need to make a show of it, aka the dude scrubbing the counter with his pork and beans. Or the other guy who feels the need to walk clear across the room in his birthday suit to weigh himself.