I thought we could all use a laugh, I got this emailed to me this morning, I think all women on this board can relate to this happening to them...
A Woman's Public Restroom experience...
My mother was a fanatic about public bathrooms. When I was a little girl, she'd take me into the stall, teach me to wad up toilet paper and wipe the seat. Then, she'd carefully lay strips of toilet paper to cover the seat. Finally, she'd instruct, "Never, NEVER sit on a public toilet seat. Then she'd demonstrate "The Stance," which consisted of balancing over the toilet in a sitting position without actually letting any of your flesh make contact with the toilet seat.
By this time, I'd have wet down my leg and we'd have to go home to change my clothes. That was a long time ago. But even now, in my more "mature" years, The Stance is excruciatingly difficult to maintain, especially when one's bladder is full.
When you have to "go" in a public bathroom, you usually find a line of women that makes you think there's a half-price sale on Victoria's Secret underwear in there. So, you wait and smile politely at all the other ladies, who are also crossing their legs and smiling politely.
As you get closer you check for feet under the stall doors (maybe someone has overlooked an opportunity?). Every one is occupied. Finally, a door opens and you dash in, nearly knocking down the woman leaving the stall. You get in to find the door won't latch. It doesn't matter.
The dispenser for the new fangled "seat covers" (invented by someone's mom, no doubt) is handy, but empty. You would hang your purse on the door hook, if there was one, but there isn't - so you carefully but quickly hang it around your neck (Mom would turn over in her grave if you put it on the FLOOR!), yank down your pants, and assume The Stance.
Ahhhh, relief. More relief. But then your thighs begin to shake. You'd love to sit down, but you certainly hadn't taken time to wipe the seat or lay toilet paper on it, so you hold The Stance as your thighs experience a quake that would register an eight on the Richter scale.
To take your mind off of your trembling thighs, you reach for what you discover to be the empty toilet paper dispenser. In your mind, you can hear your mother's voice saying, "Honey, if you would have tried to clean the seat, you would have KNOWN there was no toilet paper!"
Your thighs shake more. You remember the tiny tissue that you blew your nose on yesterday - the one that's still in your purse. That will have to do. You crumple it in the puffiest way possible. It is still smaller than your thumbnail.
Someone pushes open your stall door because the latch doesn't work. The door hits your purse, which is hanging around your neck in front of your chest, and you and your purse topple backward against the tank of the toilet.
"Occupied!" you scream, as you reach for the door, dropping your precious, tiny, crumpled tissue in a puddle, and sliding down, directly onto the insidious toilet seat. You bolt up, knowing all too well that it's too late. Your bare bottom has made contact with every imaginable germ and life form on the uncovered seat because YOU never laid down toilet paper - not that there was any, even if you had taken time to try. You know that your mother would be utterly ashamed of you if she knew, because you're certain that her bare bottom never touched a public toilet seat because, frankly, dear, "You just don't KNOW what kind of diseases you could get."
By this time, the automatic sensor on the back of the toilet is so confused that it flushes, sending up a stream of water akin to a fountain that suddenly sucks everything down with such force that you grab onto the toilet paper dispenser for fear of being dragged off to China. At that point, you give up.
You're soaked by the splashing water. You're exhausted. You try to wipe with a gum wrapper you found in your pocket, and then slink out inconspicuously to the sinks. Y
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