Have you ever, like, gone to the bathroom and lock yourself in the stall, and then when you were done with your business, try to open the stall but the lock doesn’t open? And then you twist the knob furiously while simultaneously assessing how close the stall walls are to the ground and decide that there’s no way you’ll be able to climb under? And then you realize that the only other woman at your office left and you don’t know if you should call out to the men or if they’ll even hear you because the warehouse is far away? And you wonder if they’ll notice that you haven’t left yet because it’s near the end of the day and they could just assume that you’ve gone already? And then you assess how close the stall walls are to the ceiling and decide that there’s no way you’ll be able to climb over it if it came to that and you wonder who the hell designed this bathroom stall anyway? And just when you reach that point of desperation where you’re going to start ramming the stall door with your shoulder, the lock turns and you leave and pretend that nothing happened?
So this will probably hearken back a little to my Trumanshowphobia, but I really, really hope the bathroom at work doesn’t have two-way mirrors or security cameras.
This isn’t because I’m afraid of people seeing me pee (although…ew), but I use the bathroom as a no-holds-barred stress relief zone.
Let me paint you a word picture: I am the only girl. Which means the bathroom is all mine. The warehouse is large and the architect (or whatever) assumed that a varied number of people would work at this location, so they built a bathroom to accommodate a significant number of women. Their mistake, because it’s still just me.
The bathroom door is slightly broken. It doesn’t close gently; it slams. The slam sounds like a car backfiring or a gunshot. For the first month or so it scared the shit out of me. Now, it’s more like a starter pistol for fun.
Don’t get me wrong; I drink a lot of water at work, so when I go to the bathroom, it’s generally for the normal reasons, but at least once a day, I treat that place as my sanity sanctuary.
When I’m there, I do amateur yoga. I sing. I dance. I practice my golf swing. Exploits have included:
- High kicks and singing the classic song “Kung Fu Fighting”
- Lip syncing Britney Spears’s “Stronger” while strutting up and down the aisle.
- Inventing yoga moves to try to alleviate shoulder pain (if my coworkers heard me shriek out in pain, I hope it wasn’t misinterpreted).
- Singing “Fuck You” into the mirror. Yes, directed at MYSELF.
- Contemplating for a good two or three minutes whether or not it would be a good idea to try and sneak in a nap, but ultimately deciding it’s a bad idea.
- Jumping around like Star Wars Kid (no joke).
And on and on and on. Judge me if you want, but you’re not welcome into my cave.
I figure we all have those places where we can totally just be. Sometimes that place just happens to be the bathroom.