I work in what amounts to an office building with several departments sharing the second floor. I have a ridiculous addiction to Diet Coke, 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 Neverland. There are the well known rules: if applicable, always put at least one urinal between yourself and the next gentleman. Nothing screws up my chi more than a guy who comes in and stands right next to me when there are two or three other places for him to stand. This is especially aggravating in stadiums and arenas where there are 40 urinals. Maybe it is my animal magnetism or the fact that my striking blue eyes pop when I’m wearing a blue shirt, or perhaps 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 don’t even want to subject myself to that.
While the above two are important, they are not the pinnacles of the bathroom dude code. Nay. Together, those are but the penultimate to the 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 make some sort of sound alerting others that the space is occupied. Normally this is achieved through a clearing of the throat or maybe 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 sound. There was nothing at all but complete, utter silence. And for that, I learned something new about myself; a new, deep, dark secret that makes me uncomfortable to say the least. I sing when I pee. In this instance I did not hum, I did not mumble incoherent lyrics under my breath. I made that toilet my own personal Broadway stage. I wish I could say I at least sang something manly like Eye of the Tiger, or Welcome to the Jungle, or 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-serenade 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.