The bathroom is my bitch lover. Whether I'm home or out, the bathroom is where I find sweet relief from everything that is going on around me. When the room is spinning and I drank way to much, I find solace in the bathroom. I hear my name being called from my boss's office at my internship but no one can find me, I'm in the loo. If I have a bad day at my retail job, I hit the head. Even if it's just to wash my hands, the water closet is a safe zone. When I'm on the floor at Pottery Barn, I will wash my hands until they are cracked and bleeding, but no customer would dare to knock on the door and interrupt me.
Like with every passionate relationship, the bathroom comes with a host of quirks and baggage that need to be handled with sensitivity. I like to think I have mastered most encounters but every once in a while, it throws me for a loop.
Last Friday night and Holly and I were pounding $3 beers at a bar in the Lower East Side when I threw my bag into her lap and rushed down the steep stairs to the bathroom.
I had to go so badly and it was really satisfying to sit down for the first time since I had gotten to work around 9:00am that morning and pee. But when I tried to flush the toilet, it wouldnt flush. A moment of hesitation on my part had been made when I reached for the handle. Had the sensitive filly of the bathroom noticed my trepidation?
I went over my options in my head. A second flush would be the obvious choice although everyone else in the bathroom would hear it and know that I had clogged the toilet or done something WORSE. I could lift the top of the toilet off and investigate but again, that would draw too much attention to my cause. I could leave it but the person who came in after me would know what I had done and worse, know what I looked like.
I waited, frozen, for the last person to finish washing their hands and bolted for the door. I let some water drip on my hands on the way out, but I admit, it was not a thorough washing job. I escaped from the room an instant before the other stall door opened. My identity was preserved.
I tried to sit back down and enjoy my beer but I couldn't focus. Holly told me a hilarious story about her brother and I halfheartedly laughed-- my mind was still in the bathroom. Did I really clog the toilet or was I just an innocent accessory in a crime that occurred long before my time? I wondered if the water was still running in the bowl. Maybe if I had jiggled the handle... a myriad of second thoughts ran through my mind as I tumbled the sequence of events over and over again. At this point i had completely stopped paying attention to Holly and was watching the bathroom door intently, judging each person as they left. Did the have the same guilt stricken look I had?
I was considering going to Home Depot, buying a plunger and coming back to investigate when I decided it was time to share my guilt. I interrupted Holly's description of her work day to ask her about the toilet, if it had been clogged when she went to the bathroom too. She thought for a minute and said that it had. Unlike me, she had not given it a second thought, just blamed it on a previous user and gone on her way. She pointed out that because of my over analytical personality led me to become preoccupied in small, menial things. She told me I was being controlling and to lighten up.
I think I just care too much.
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