This Is Not Table Talk

I have a love - hate relationship with toilets.  Devoted reader that you are, I know you are wondering how a self-proclaimed, card-carrying, hand-sanitizer-wielding germophobe can love toilets.

It all started when I went to an alternative elementary school in Portland.  The gist of it was that at the beginning of every week, the students planned out their schedules for the whole week.  We were probably supposed to write things like "math", "reading", "art", etc. in the time slots.  There were no rules, except that we had to do what we said we would do.  Remember, this was the 70's.  So, being in first grade, I wrote "play", "play",  "play","play", "library", "play", "play", "play", all day every day, five days a week.  And five days a week, I played played played played played in, of all places, the Bathroom!  Sometimes I added in "art" for variety, but I spent most of my days at Metropolitan Learning Center in the basement "comfort station". [Gentle Reader, please be assured that, although I played for two years in the bathroom, it in no way affected my educational progress.]

It was a big bathroom, painted institution mint green.  There was a lot of light owing to the windows near the ceiling that were at street level.  There was also a big ledge under those windows, so if a person were to climb on top of the sink, a person could pull one's self up on to the ledge and sit up there, like Queen of the Castle, and survey the comings and goings.  On a sunny day, the sun dazzled through the glazed windows and made for a warm window seat, perfect for reading a library book.  Sometimes those windows leaned open to the inside, so a person could gaze out at the feet walking past on the sidewalk.  Additionally, if a person were to go in the stall and stand on the toilet, a person could jump off the toilet and grab the bar above the stall door, like a trapeze artist, and swing back and forth.  I gained a lot of upper body strength in first and second grades, but not because I ever went to P.E. 

In third grade, I lived at my grandma's and grandpa's house.  They had a cleaning woman, whom I'll call Mrs. Harper.  FERPA and HIPPA laws dictate that I must protect her identity and privacy at all costs.  Mrs. Harper was exceptionally fastidious in her cleaning duties.  It was a well-known fact that anything that Mrs. Harper cleaned was most certainly cleaner than it had ever been before.  I had such confidence in Mrs. Harper's abilities that I was compelled to prove it to my cousins.  That's how it came to be that I washed my hands in the toilet one day, encouraging my kin to do the same.  "It's clean water," I insisted, "just cold!"  Oddly enough, I wasn't sufficiently convincing and they stuck to the old-fashioned method of washing.  Looking back, I'm wondering how I held myself back from brushing my teeth there, too.  The looks of disgust I received must have put a small chink in my faith in Mrs. Harper's attention to detail.

Fast forward to the present day.  One modern upgrade to public toilets is the automatic flusher.  Many people are of the belief that this is a wonderful feature on a toilet, thus preventing the user from touching an otherwise filthy flush handle, which is reported to house 40,000 germs per square inch fighting for a piece of the real estate.  "What luxury to not mingle my germs with all of those germs", you may be thinking, as the toilet's sensor discerns that you have finished your business and begins the flushing process.   Dedicated reader, you know what I'm going to say next.  If you don't, please refer to the previous post, "Cover Your Mouth!"  In the flushing process, germs of all walks of life are spewn up into the air, creating an invisible mist with a potential 4-foot radius.  Depending on the sensitivity of the sensor, it may not be humanly possible for you to exit the stall before being be-dewed (really, no pun intended) with all sorts of unthinkable germs.  If you are like me, your mind is racing back to the last time you were in a stall with an automatic flusher.  "Did I get out in time?" "Are the germs on the back of my down jacket?"  "My red purse?"  "Was I facing the toilet or the door?"  "Where did I put my purse when I got home - the kitchen counter?" The questions will come faster and faster as the reality sinks in, along with that panicky feeling of never being clean, ever again.  You will find yourself tripping over your pant legs in your effort to escape the stall before the spritzing begins.  Heaven help you if the sensor doesn't work and you have to flush it the old-fashioned way.  Don't think that this free-for-all germ spouting action is restricted to automatic flushers - all toilets issue the germ-laden brume.  Even in your own home, nothing is sacred.  Do you have a toothbrush or comb nearby?  Do you have a bathrobe hanging within that misty radius?  Do you cover your soaking contact lenses at night?  Where is your washcloth when all of this is going on?  The questions are endless, and the more you ponder them, the more questions will be generated.  You may lose sleep over this, don't say I didn't warn you.

Let's recap.  In my early years, I was attracted to bathrooms.  I played, read, exercised, and hid in the powder room.  I washed my hands in the toilet with confidence.  I dropped numerous items in the toilet and  happily fished them out bare handed.  The toilet was my friend.  As I became more aware of the hidden dangers of the world, i.e. germs, the toilet and I grew apart and went our separate ways.  I recognize the importance of the toilet in Western culture, but I no longer have that soft spot in my heart for the porcelain goddess.  We are no longer friends.  We are frenemies.