Wet Foot, Dry Foot

Whenever I use the ladies’ room at work, I always do my best to leave a courtesy stall between myself and any other occupants. Obviously, this isn’t always an option. Sometimes, every other stall is in use. Other times, every other stall is filthy. But unless such circumstances exist, you can always count on me to extend that courtesy. I usually expect others to conform to this methodology, but not everyone is cognizant of the unspoken etiquettes of public and semi-public facilities.

Today was one of the days I experienced a run-in with one of the abovementioned people. Despite every single stall (save the one I was in) being empty, she entered the stall next to mine. She opted to hover instead of using the seat covers. I have no problem with hovering. At work, I will sit after lining the seat with a minimum of three seat covers, so long as there is no observable moisture clinging to the seat. In other places (like Walmart), I will hover like a pro. I’m not sure if it’s because I grew up in a black household, but I was taught the fine art of hovering as soon as I graduated to “big girl” panties. My mother didn’t play. I made the mistake of sitting on an unprotected public toilet once in my life, and my mother disinfected my behind with the vigor of the sanitizing cycle on the dishwasher. I learned my lesson well, and it never happened again.

Anywho, back to the woman in the stall next to me, who shall henceforth be known as The Hoverer. I knew things were going to end badly when I heard the sound of splashing against the seat. Do you remember that scene from The Titanic when Rose and Jack were met in the hallway by a rush of water? This was what flashed through my mind when an invisible dam broke somewhere, and pee flooded into my stall. What had this heffa been drinking? And how large was her bladder, being able to hold a damned gallon at a time? Before I even had a chance to move my foot, I was hit with a warm spray of ANOTHER HUMAN BEING’S URINE. Did y’all hear me? No, I don’t think you did. This nasty heffa peed on my damned foot. And the whole time, I’m sat there wondering why she didn’t stop. I’d like to think I would have the courtesy to pause, assess the situation, and try to remedy it. But, no. Not The Hoverer. She kept right on going until her bladder was empty, while I sat there cursing (not silently).

The Hoverer quickly exited the stall when she was done, and left the bathroom after a quick rinse at the sink. I’ll assume she was trying to keep her identity a secret. Thank goodness I always tuck the end of my skirt under my arm upon entering the bathroom to keep it from touching the floor; otherwise, the entire office would have gotten to know me a whole lot better than they ever wanted to. I would have tossed my skirt in the trash and sported drawers and a tunic for the rest of the day.

In case you were wondering, my shoes have been discarded, and my feet have been thoroughly disinfected with the hottest water possible. I have also followed up with alcohol pads, courtesy of the medicine cabinet on my floor. I’m strongly considering buying adult diapers now, because I cannot go through this again. I CANNOT.


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