I’ll be back real soon…What actually goes on behind the closed doors of the powder room? The conversations and events in the lavatory are relative to the establishment. I’ve noticed, though, some things never change. Here’s my chronology of bathroom behavior, at least for the egg producing portion of society:
For wee little chicks, the bathroom is a playground. It is here we search the cabinets for our mom’s toiletries. The secret world of the grown up girl with the same parts only bigger and hairier (It was the pre-brazilian days.). What are these tubes filled with cotton balls? Instinctively we knew it was for the restricted basement area. We splashed on the Jean Nate and Charlie to smell like mom. It was the days when my sister and I were afraid to take a bath fearing Jaws would erupt from the drain. In school, we would congregate in the bathroom to get the 411 on the neighborhood. We may even get silly, throw water and make soap bubbles. No matter which bathroom, ultimately, an adult would be screaming to clean up the mess and get out.
As puberty arrived, the interest in the kotex and tampax piqued. When would I need these? What is this K-Y for? Then came the pounding. “How long will you be in there? I need to go.” Sorry sister, the days of sharing the toilet are over. Squatter’s rights. I am the queen of the latrine for now. This was the only privacy I had. At least I could get away from the insanity and dive into my own world in the quiet of my shower and personal pampering. Now school was a different story. The girls’ room was the place to be if you wanted to know who was kissing whom. What is french kissing? I always felt left out since I wasn’t kissing anybody, nor did I have the opportunity. Some girl was always crying, bitching or fighting in the girls’ room. Then the make up hug came with continued tears. Oh no! Blood on my Catholic school skirt….where’s my mother’s kotex? Here come Sister Lorraine (the bitch who hit kids)…”What’s going on here? Get back to class before I call Father McClaughlin.”
During high school, the bathroom at home was an area that my father avoided while my sister and I were around. God forbid he caught us running to the shower with a towel holding the box of tampoons (his name for them). He’d let out a shriek and run the other way. During the school day, the lav was the place to make a safe change before the Catholic skirt stain(I got smarter.). Now that everyone knew how to French kiss, besides me, the subject matter progressed. The topic became the dating scene. The cutest boys, the football players and the cheerleaders always seemed to be dating. I never had anything to contribute to these conversations. The only activity for me, besides pad swapping, was trying to sneak a smoke before the bathroom lady came back. Once a week, a cat fight would break out. Someone called someone’s mother a douche bag and it was over. The “F” you fight and maybe even a few fists would fly. Oh no! Here comes Sister Catherine McGary, appropriately nicknamed “the walrus.” “Get back to class or see me in detention! Does anyone smell smoke?”
The college dorm changed my bathroom behavior. I could smoke in my room; so the bathroom was a place for hygiene and having to learn how to poop with someone six inches away. I think this is where I developed my fear of going #2 outside my house and commenced the need for Metamucil. More importantly, the bar and nightclub powder rooms opened my eyes to a whole new world. The lines were long. Hurry, I needed to re-apply my lipstick and get back to my fav song and the cute guy who would never give me the time of day. Once inside, the conversation again progressed to who was sleeping with whom. Ugh! I had nothing to contribute. Why was the mirror off the wall? The girls with the straws and white stuff on their noses needed it for a close up. Is that girl a diabetic? Why would she inject insulin between her toes? It didn’t take long for me to realize what was really going on. Not to mention, there was the potential for a cat fight. There was always some bitching going on. Some douche was sleeping with someone’s drunk boyfriend…here we go again!
*Please note, it was in these days that I (and every other full bladdered chick) would use the men’s room to avoid the line. I did, once, pee on Revere Beach with at least five others after the candy man visited Regis College and we needed a Kelly’s Roast Beef fix to satiate the munchies, one very rare time that I was actually bad.*
I now share my bathroom with my husband. To my chagrin, our four boys love my bathroom, even though they each have their own. “Mom, are you done? I want to take a shower!” This is my bathroom! “Sooo what!” Fast forward to my forties, where I frequent upscale restaurants as well as my fav ATL hot spots. My youngest came out of the men’s room at New York Prime…”Mom, did you have mouthwash and lotion in yours?” The ladies are sweet and reserved with their minks and Chanel lipstick. Just down the road is my go to nightclub, Rose Bar where the bathroom lady passes me a paper towel and says, “hey baby, where you been?” The girls are crowded in, applying their makeup for the ultimate pickup. So I drop $5 in the tip bucket and move out for the younger girls to discuss the night’s prospects. It’s just not the same here in ATL. I’ll wait to go home to Boston and hit a club with my besties for an old school meeting in the ladies’ room.
Tell me what’s going on n your life. I want to hear from you.
Wishing you love, balance and peace.
Amore & Baci (love & kisses),
Just Steph
