When I’m applying for a job, the biggest concern of mine is a safe poop zone. Poop happens everyday and let’s face it, it’s not fun nor wise to hold it in until a private environment presents itself.
Work places without private bathrooms and only stalls of shame, lead to a nervous pinch fest of stops and starts that could confuse any colon into constipation.
Commercialized bathroom products only complicate the situation, making pooping an impossible mission with the need for the timing of a ninja and the exit strategy of… well, a ninja.
Of course this plight only applies to women, because men don’t care about anything. Women dress for women, work out for women and deny their bodily functions for women too. What have other women ever done for us? Nothing. But I digress.
The good news is, there are plenty of ways to mask your identity and your deeds. There’s the “stand on the toilet” trick when a coworker enters, being entirely silent until they finish their business and leave. There is the “pretend you only have to pee” method, where you pee while a coworker is present and then leave, only to return in 5 minutes to attempt the job again. Then there is the “pretend you have a family emergency” method, where you say you have to run out real quick to solve a family crisis and poop at the shopping mall across the street. Only to return 20 minutes later, seemingly really unconcerned about your family.
None of these methods are truly rock solid solutions, but if you don’t employ them from time to time, you will have a rock solid situation of your own going on. If you know what I mean. And You do.
There is one major factor in my workplace that trumps all those solutions, and reveals the identity of the pooper. Literally, like a trumpet.
Industrial toilet paper dispensers.
These freaking things are the bain of my existence, besides my job itself of course.
First of all, they are HUGE. They take up half the stall, making the handicapped one prime real-estate, even though the handicapped one is closer to the door and by default, more dangerous.
Secondly, they contain THE cheapest, flimsiest, roughest toilet paper engineered by humans. The rolls are the size of a smart car tire and unraveling one actually counts as an upper body workout.
The access compartment to the paper itself is always literally a foot below the bowl, and you have to lean forward in a delicate, balanced stoop to reach the paper. But you mustn’t bend too low or else you will set off the laser eye that auto flushes the toilet, while your unsuspecting ass becomes the victim of a free, raunchy bidet.
The leaning is not the worst of it, by far. These contraptions also have this horrible sliding access panel that is spring loaded. It’s like some sort of security measure for the roll, and suggests that at any time your supply of butt paper could be totally cut off if you aren’t careful. You must hold this trap door open with one hand while you attempt to yank on the massive roll enough with the other hand to get one measly square of shredded papier-mache in your clutches. Of course, the weight of the roll causes the first square to detach immediately and continues with every square afterward. The one inch paper in your hand is merely the START to the massive stock pile you must acquire to simply execute one standard wipe.
If all that wasn’t bad enough, this medieval torture device also has audio features that let the world know exactly what is going on in your stall. All of your ninja moves are at once nullified.
These damn things make the LOUDEST, SQUEAKIEST, RUMBLE of a trumpet noise you have ever heard.
One square = “HHHHRRRRRRRMMMMMMMMFFFFFFFPPPPPHHHHHH.”
Have you ever felt that one square was enough to clear your butt of exit material? You can imagine this trumpeting goes on and on for quite some time.
IF you work in a school and the bathroom happens to be next to the elementary music room, you have the slight chance of a passer-by mistaking your poop trumpet for an untalented student who just couldn’t hack football. Otherwise, you are outed like a school boy who wears foundation in the third grade. Everyone knows your secret. Everyone.
Just like Clinique-face boy, those closest to the situation will project denial. Anyone who happens to be in your line of sight when you exit the stall will make no eye contact with you whatsoever. You will both wash your hands in a silence akin to only the Clinton marriage, circa the mid 90’s. You both know the poop trumpet has echoed the tiled walls with tonal complexities that are actually impressive, but officially you both heard nothing. NOTHING.
There is a very unlucky icing to this poop cake that occurs from time to time. This occurrence is the worst of the worst, dreaded by all, but only befell on the unluckiest of poop trumpeters.
That is the “motion sensor black out.”
If you take too long to finish your poop mission in an otherwise empty bathroom and the stall has been closed for a lengthy amount of time, the forgetful motion sensor attached to the bathroom lights won’t remember that you exist and shut all the lights off.
Not only do you still have the terrible trumpeting paper task ahead of you, but now you can’t see a thing. The only way to get the lights to come back on is wait for a visitor, or perform what I call the “Russian roulette tribal dance of shame.”
This is the riskiest of all moves and has the potential to ruin any pooper for life.
This tactic involves feeling your way around enough to unlatch the stall door. Then you must hop carefully and incrementally toward the sink, with your pants around your ankles to prevent skid marks. Then you must jump and furiously wave your arms in the air, in an attempt to awaken the motion sensor to the point of illumination.
Obviously, this move comes with the risk of a coworkers’ entrance, whereupon they will find you, crotchal area exposed, jumping at a furious pace and swiftly circulating the stench air so there is no mistaking your current residence in browntown. This is officially your lowest point in life.
But even if you are spared, without reaching that terrible low, everyone in a 500 foot radius still gets a clear mental image of what you have done, when you’ve got a poop trumpet.