Monday, January 07, 2008
I usually try to avoid the downstairs bathroom at work, only using it in dire circumstances or when the mall is dead (usually Monday to Wednesday in the morning or on Saturdays before work). I've mentioned it before but dirty bathrooms and kitchen sick me out and I'm very ritualistic (read: anal-retentive - no pun intended) about their use.
In busier times, I'll make the trek up to the third floor if only because I prefer to pee in peace, and it smells better up there (weak gag-reflex). The third floor is supposed to be closed to the general public, but I'm above reproach.
Friday, at around pm, I made the mistake of assuming that since the mall was relatively quiet, that the bathroom would be relatively clean but that was not the case. I rounded the corner only to be met with a line - at least it didn't smell like a baby's soiled diaper but I hate busy bathrooms. Going to the bathroom is a rather leisurely experience, and I don't like being rushed. There was one stall that was rather ominously unused and the woman ahead of me confidently strolled in, only to be seen slinking out seconds later completely aghast - I don't even want to begin to speculate. Another stall quickly opened up and I moved up in line.
The next stall that opened up was my least favourite, the one directly in the middle of all the action. I didn't really want to use it but I'd already waited in line, and the reason I was in that bathroom in the first place is because I was pressed for time. A girl, slightly younger than me, emerged and casually washed her hands subconsciously fixing her makeup in the bathroom mirror. I took about two steps into the bathroom and my eyes fell to the bowl. In it, clinging precariously to the walls, were two ice cream scoop-sized balls of poop that were so dark they resembled an 85% cocoa chocolate bar.
I muttered a few choice swear words and booked it out of the bathroom. At this point I really needed to pee and I was running out of time so I ran up three flights of stairs, fighting the urge to puke. Once I returned to work, 15 minutes later, I relayed this experience to my co-workers who were equally horrified. I expressed concern that this person could just make a mess in a busy bathroom and exit the stall nonchalantly as if nothing was wrong. I understand that the toilets in that bathroom are flawed and have an unnaturally long shelf-to-bowl ratio that frequently causes toilet paper to stick, but still.
Then, I admitted that if that had been me, I either would have wrapped my hand in about a rolls-worth of toilet paper and nudged it free, or stayed in the stall until the coast was clear. A few nodded in agreement, except for the Pansy who was absolutely appalled. I tried reasoning with her that she picked up the dog's poop and that it's not like it would be with my bare hands, but she wasn't having any of it and we left it at an impasse.