Baking a Souffle
Women and their bathroom phobias. It's a topic that needs to be exposed to the light of truth so we can at last be free. Free from the shame. Free from the lies. Free to be and do who we are and what we must! Today, with a sense of righteous purpose, I choose to reveal the truth.
Women use the bathroom for more than putting on makeup and checking their hair.
There, I said it and I'm glad. Glad, I tell you!
While men can happily announce to all and sundry that they need to use the bathroom for its intended purpose (going so far as to even use the WORDS), many women don't share that comfort level. Rarely will you see a woman tuck reading material under her armpit in proud defiance as she marches to the nearest rest room to...erm...do something that Ladies never, EVER talk about(insert your favorite euphemism here). No, most of us prefer to have the world think we're going to "check my souffle," "make a phone call," or "let the dogs out" (three of my personal favorites) as we excuse ourselves and furtively slink down the hallway in search of relief. To further illustrate, I submit the following true story from the archives of my life.
The other week at work my stomach was upset and I couldn't put off the inevitable any longer. Just thinking about what I had to do brought about nearly phobic levels of horror that I was going to have to go public with an intensely private situation.
Luckily, we have a bathroom on Mahogany Row that was once the Executive Washroom but had been reappointed a unisex/unistatus bathroom by the powers of ADA compliance. It's been my own personal rebellion to use that bathroom when the need arises. The benefits are that there's only one commode, so I don't chance running into another soul in there, AND it's superbly satisfying on an emotional level to sort of thumb my nose at all the executives who used to have exclusive rights to this particular sanctuary. Power to the people and all that.
My normal (okay, that may be an oxymoron) way of coping is to enter the sanctuary, turn on the fan, turn on the water, sing a song really loud, and quiver and quake with nerves until finished. If my visit required the use of air freshener, I'd crank the water pressure up to flood stage while spraying enough freshener to produce a fog dense enough to easily choke anyone following me in there.
This day, however, fate was unusually cruel. At the time of my most dire need, the Executive Washroom was filled with an Executive. I was bereft. I was distraught. I was getting sicker by the moment. I had no choice but to use the multi-stalled facilities known as the Ladies Room.
Looking up and down the hallway, waiting until the coast was clear, I made my way there. Fate tossed me a reprieve. Both the little parlor room with the sink, mirror and seating area, AND the stalls (and believe me, I crouched down to check!) were empty. Wheew.
I'd lost my cover of running water (located in the parlor area), noisy exhaust fan (damn them to hell for having an exhaust system in good working order!) and privacy, but I still had access to the air freshener. That was of some comfort, at least. So, I did what I'd come to do, all the while spraying air freshener and praying that no one would come in and realize that I wasn't REALLY checking my souffle.
Feeling better, I left the stall and wandered into the bathroom parlor to wash my hands, check my hair and do the myriad other little things that bring a sense of closure to an otherwise traumatic event like being sick at work.
Glancing in the mirror, a horrified gasp escaped as I noticed that my hair (liberally starched with hair spray that morning) was covered with teeny, tiny flecks of white. Accumulated on my bangs were a gazillion unexploded bubbles from the air freshener which had rained down on me while I had been happily spraying half the can in the stall during my ordeal.
I looked like a flocked Christmas tree. All I needed to complete the holiday theme was a red cardinal perched in my hair and some tinsel.
With a frenzy born of sheer panic, I started slapping my forehead repeatedly with the palm of my hand to make the bubbles GO AWAY! And, of course, that's JUST the moment when my boss walked in.
She grabbed my hand, thinking the stress had finally made me snap, and pulled me over to one of the chairs, all the while oozing concern. "Karen, stop. It'll be okay. You'll be fine. What can I do? What's wro..." That's when she noticed the bubbles that I hadn't been able to kill before she walked in. Watching her expression change from sincere concern to sincere bafflement, she asked "Karen? What's wrong with your hair?"
The flood gates of my psyche opened with a WHOOSH loud enough to be heard in the next building. Babbling incoherently, I stammered out my story. "My stomach...sick...Executive Washroom busy...air freshener...white noise...tiny bubbles...make them go away...Christmas tree...Waaaaaaaa."
Her face changed from bafflement to disbelief to lip twitching amusement in a matter of seconds before she exploded with laughter. My humiliation was complete. Wiping the tears, she stood up, took one good swipe at my flocking with her palm, and left the bathroom while I sat there stupefied and mentally calculated how long it would take for the story to make the rounds of the office.
Five minutes. That's how long.
Coworkers started showing up in my office bearing gifts. I received a vial of perfume, a scented candle, some stomach medication, a Japanese folding fan, and one witty soul even brought a cork! And every ONE of them inspected my hair for the possibility of remaining bubbles with the hope that they would have a good excuse to hit me. Oh, yes. A grand time was had by all.
Ladies, here's the deal. We put things (hopefully just food and drink) into our digestive system, and things (again, hopefully just food and drink) must somehow come out again. It's a natural process. We must learn to find peace with the process. We MUST.
Okay, *I* must. And I will. I really will. Or maybe I'll just find a whole new set of clever euphemisms instead, and learn to point the air freshener away from my hair. ;-)
Women use the bathroom for more than putting on makeup and checking their hair.
There, I said it and I'm glad. Glad, I tell you!
While men can happily announce to all and sundry that they need to use the bathroom for its intended purpose (going so far as to even use the WORDS), many women don't share that comfort level. Rarely will you see a woman tuck reading material under her armpit in proud defiance as she marches to the nearest rest room to...erm...do something that Ladies never, EVER talk about(insert your favorite euphemism here). No, most of us prefer to have the world think we're going to "check my souffle," "make a phone call," or "let the dogs out" (three of my personal favorites) as we excuse ourselves and furtively slink down the hallway in search of relief. To further illustrate, I submit the following true story from the archives of my life.
The other week at work my stomach was upset and I couldn't put off the inevitable any longer. Just thinking about what I had to do brought about nearly phobic levels of horror that I was going to have to go public with an intensely private situation.
Luckily, we have a bathroom on Mahogany Row that was once the Executive Washroom but had been reappointed a unisex/unistatus bathroom by the powers of ADA compliance. It's been my own personal rebellion to use that bathroom when the need arises. The benefits are that there's only one commode, so I don't chance running into another soul in there, AND it's superbly satisfying on an emotional level to sort of thumb my nose at all the executives who used to have exclusive rights to this particular sanctuary. Power to the people and all that.
My normal (okay, that may be an oxymoron) way of coping is to enter the sanctuary, turn on the fan, turn on the water, sing a song really loud, and quiver and quake with nerves until finished. If my visit required the use of air freshener, I'd crank the water pressure up to flood stage while spraying enough freshener to produce a fog dense enough to easily choke anyone following me in there.
This day, however, fate was unusually cruel. At the time of my most dire need, the Executive Washroom was filled with an Executive. I was bereft. I was distraught. I was getting sicker by the moment. I had no choice but to use the multi-stalled facilities known as the Ladies Room.
Looking up and down the hallway, waiting until the coast was clear, I made my way there. Fate tossed me a reprieve. Both the little parlor room with the sink, mirror and seating area, AND the stalls (and believe me, I crouched down to check!) were empty. Wheew.
I'd lost my cover of running water (located in the parlor area), noisy exhaust fan (damn them to hell for having an exhaust system in good working order!) and privacy, but I still had access to the air freshener. That was of some comfort, at least. So, I did what I'd come to do, all the while spraying air freshener and praying that no one would come in and realize that I wasn't REALLY checking my souffle.
Feeling better, I left the stall and wandered into the bathroom parlor to wash my hands, check my hair and do the myriad other little things that bring a sense of closure to an otherwise traumatic event like being sick at work.
Glancing in the mirror, a horrified gasp escaped as I noticed that my hair (liberally starched with hair spray that morning) was covered with teeny, tiny flecks of white. Accumulated on my bangs were a gazillion unexploded bubbles from the air freshener which had rained down on me while I had been happily spraying half the can in the stall during my ordeal.
I looked like a flocked Christmas tree. All I needed to complete the holiday theme was a red cardinal perched in my hair and some tinsel.
With a frenzy born of sheer panic, I started slapping my forehead repeatedly with the palm of my hand to make the bubbles GO AWAY! And, of course, that's JUST the moment when my boss walked in.
She grabbed my hand, thinking the stress had finally made me snap, and pulled me over to one of the chairs, all the while oozing concern. "Karen, stop. It'll be okay. You'll be fine. What can I do? What's wro..." That's when she noticed the bubbles that I hadn't been able to kill before she walked in. Watching her expression change from sincere concern to sincere bafflement, she asked "Karen? What's wrong with your hair?"
The flood gates of my psyche opened with a WHOOSH loud enough to be heard in the next building. Babbling incoherently, I stammered out my story. "My stomach...sick...Executive Washroom busy...air freshener...white noise...tiny bubbles...make them go away...Christmas tree...Waaaaaaaa."
Her face changed from bafflement to disbelief to lip twitching amusement in a matter of seconds before she exploded with laughter. My humiliation was complete. Wiping the tears, she stood up, took one good swipe at my flocking with her palm, and left the bathroom while I sat there stupefied and mentally calculated how long it would take for the story to make the rounds of the office.
Five minutes. That's how long.
Coworkers started showing up in my office bearing gifts. I received a vial of perfume, a scented candle, some stomach medication, a Japanese folding fan, and one witty soul even brought a cork! And every ONE of them inspected my hair for the possibility of remaining bubbles with the hope that they would have a good excuse to hit me. Oh, yes. A grand time was had by all.
Ladies, here's the deal. We put things (hopefully just food and drink) into our digestive system, and things (again, hopefully just food and drink) must somehow come out again. It's a natural process. We must learn to find peace with the process. We MUST.
Okay, *I* must. And I will. I really will. Or maybe I'll just find a whole new set of clever euphemisms instead, and learn to point the air freshener away from my hair. ;-)
posted by Karen at 11:07 AM
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