I work in what amounts to an office building with several departments sharing the second floor. I have a ridiculous addiction to Diet CokeÔ so I find myself vagabonding to the facilities several times a day. I cannot speak for girls but for men, there is a certain code of ethics one must follow when in our porcelain utopia. There are the well known ones: if applicable, ALWAYS put at least one urinal between yourself and the other gentleman. Nothing screws up my chi like when a guy comes in and stands right next to me when there are two or three other places for him to stand. This is especially aggravating at stadiums and arenas where there are 40 urinals. Perhaps it is my animal magnetism or my striking blue eyes that pop when I’m wearing a blue shirt, or other unmentionables.
Men should not speak past a polite “hello” or my personal calling card, “sup dude.” Anything further disrupts my comfort level and concentration. Unless I’ve had asparagus and I feel compelled to apologize because nobody really needs to be subjected to that. I actually apologize to myself in this case. Ick.
While the above two are important, they are not the pinnacles of the bathroom dude code. Nay. Together, those are but the penultimate to my number one rule: When you are going number two or otherwise involved with a bathroom stall and you hear the bathroom door open, it is a moral imperative that you give some sort of signal alerting others that the space is occupied. Normally this is achieved through a clearing of the throat or a sniffing of the nose. It behooves me to illustrate this with a story.
Most times when I walk into the rest room and I hear the signal, I think, “Oh heavens, I have intruded on someone’s happy time. I shall be silent, finish quickly, and exit expeditiously.” This time though, there was no signal. There was nothing at all but complete, utter silence. And for that, I learned something new about myself; a new, deep, dark secret. I sing when I pee. I did not hum, I did not mumble incoherent lyrics under my breath. I straight made that toilet my own personal Broadway stage. I wish I could say I at least sang something manly, Eye of the Tiger, Welcome to the Jungle, Enter Sandman. No dice. Gaga. Opening stanza. Bad Romance. I put such a tongue roll on the first two “ RAH RAH’s” that I almost did a little salsa dance. That could cause splash and dribble though. Splash and dribble are unacceptable so I held strong.
I completed my five-second self-concert and was pretty proud of myself when I heard the unmistakable rattle of keys from one of the stalls. Privacy foiled. He gave no signal. I saw no feet beneath the door. At first I thought perhaps he had them pressed against the door, you know, for leverage. But then, I heard no squeaks nor squirts, and smelled no funk. Who was this ninja? I had no time to find out. I had to get the heck out of dodge lest my identity be discovered and I be outed as the surefire pop icon I know I can be. I zipped, washed, dried, and made it out the door in less than three seconds, albeit not real clean and not real dry. Adrenaline, what can I say?
So let that serve as a lesson to you. If you are in the stall and you hear the door open. You best sigh heavily or you could find yourself witness to amazing vocals and possible choreography.
