Yesterday, I made my routine stop in the ladies’ room before leaving for lunch. In the stall, I examined the toilet seat for any visible signs of moisture. Feeling satisfied with my observations, I put down two seat protectors (because one just leaves way too many unprotected spots for my comfort) and sat down. I immediately realized that the seat was…warm.
In an ideal world, toilet seats would be warmed by little heated coils on the underside. We’d all pee and poo in complete comfort, without our bare behinds ever knowing the shock of cold porcelain. But in reality, there are no heated coils. A warm seat only means one thing: this toilet wasn’t used for liquid elimination, because it takes more than a few minutes to warm a toilet seat. With my frequent gastrointestinal distress, I would know. Liquid elimination (unless you happen to have an enlarged prostate) should take no more than a minute. A minute might result in some superficial warmth, but that would likely dissipate within another minute or so after use. The kind of warmth than hangs around in a bathroom that has lacked an occupant for more than a few minutes is warmth that requires time. Commitment. Possibly a magazine.
My allergies often result in either a clogged nose. You may think this is a blessing when going into a restroom shared with approximately 60 other women, but it isn’t. Blocked nasal passages require breathing through the mouth, which means that the air molecules (farts, for those of you who don’t appreciate my discretion) left behind as the result of one of my coworkers’ gastrointestinal distress have come into direct contact with my tongue. MY. TONGUE.
I never noticed how unsettled I am by warm toilet seats before today. To use a seat that still holds the heat from someone else’s body sort of bonds me to them. Doesn’t it? I mean, we have SHARED BODY HEAT. A kinship has formed between us, much to my despair. And the worst part of it is that I don’t even know who this person is. Can it be the lady from finance who makes awesome chocolate chip cookies? And if so, how well did she wash her hands after being in seclusion long enough to thoroughly warm the toilet seat? Have I eaten cookies that were lovingly crafted with contaminated hands?
The ladies’ room is a dangerous place. Depends undergarments look more appealing than I ever thought they could.