That’s the thing about the restroom in your office: No matter what decision you make, the outcome? Never good. Uh uh. There’s always that one stall, the Goldilocks of stalls ─ ooo, it is so perfect ─ but goddamn it, the lock doesn’t work. Out of the question. Unusable. Erroneous!
Never mind that you’ve worked in the building over a year and it has never been fixed, never been tended to. Oh no. Never will be, either. That stall door will swing open and closed, embarrassing each and every new employee at least once depending on how stupid they are and apt to remember what was behind door number one. Oh, their naked nether region exposed to the entire company, that’s what.
So you saw the VP take the luxurious handi-man spot. And what do you know, the one right next to it (next to HER) is the only other one that either A) does not swing open like a saloon door as soon as you drop trou’ or B) does not have a wide enough door-to-stall-wall gap so that anyone washing their hands and looking up in the mirror sees your nude chonch.
Oh yeah. You know it. You really want to take that stall. It is the perfect stall.
But it is too close.
So what do you do?
Pop a squat just politely far enough away from VP so as not to let her hear each tinkle of that Capri Sun you just sucked down for lunch? Give it a little space…only to look up and BOOM! Make eye contact in the mirror. Only it isn’t even eye contact is it? It is VP eye to your inferior vajayjay contact.
And whether you are recently waxed, sporting a bush the likes of which no one has seen since the debut of “I’m Gone Getcha Sucka,” or doing the old elastic loosening swoop on your granny panties, it is not OK.
Whatever your situation is? It is wrong in this moment.
Oh, it is so wrong and you are so busted.
But here’s the other thing, right? It’s like Hayzeus Christo, you sought gainful employment outside a gdang strip club for a reason. You’re not paying the bills by getting involved in a goddamn oil-doused midget wrestling match in some Podunk backwoods bar in Appalachia.
You’re a professional working woman with a degree from a university that does not spend its so-called education budget advertising its wares with daytime TV commercials. You command respect!
You shouldn’t be hovering over someone else’s pee remnants ─ who the F keeps peeing on this seat every time anyway?! You want to install a camera. Figure who the hell is not housebroken. I know! I feel the same way.
You shouldn’t be in physical and emotional agony, your squat burning your thighs to ashes like the nebulous memory of your dignity.
It’s just like going to the gyno. Hm. Does she think I’m whore because I shaved myself like Michael Phelps before a Subway commercial or does she think I’m a disgusting lazy pig because I’ve got Al Sharton in the wrestling pose commonly referred to as The Leg Guillotine? Yeah. You’re fucked.
And that’s why the only answer is to eliminate the consumption of any beverages.
All. Day. Long.
Oh yeah.
That’s working out great for me.
I’ve got adult acne caused by toxicity build up and dehydration, I practically die eighteen time per hot yoga session, but you know what? Old VP has no idea what’s going on downstairs.
And that, my friends, is the ultimate in Goldilocks stalls.
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