Wandering around downtown Seattle on my day off, I came into contact with many public facilities. The train, the escalators, even stairwell bannisters. I ain't no fool, and my momma done raised me right, so before I sat down to a questionable meal of food court orange chicken, I stopped by the restroom to take care of some business and wash my (inevitably) already germ sodden hands. What I encountered, though, was a little bathroom 'a horrors.
I am pretty easy going by nature, don't get me wrong. But, what is up with these HALF-SIZED stall doors? Being a busty 5'5", I am already (inevitably) looked down upon in public. I get it. You're taller, it doesn't take much. BUT! ^3, this does not mean I would like to be gawked at while I'm sitting and shittin. Graphic, but everybody poops. Local library.
This bathroom stall door was not a rectangle. Aren't all doors rectangles?! Apparently not. This was a square piece of material. So, once a person doth enter this stall, the proper coverage needed is not attained. I was sitting there, being quick about my business. When a bustling herd of bathroom goers thought it necessary to acknowledge my prescence in this precarious box of awkward. Do, dee, do. I felt like a first-grader waiting to cross the street. Frozen for fear that I'd get hit by a car, or, in this case, wiping out. Literally. Library. Get over it.
Once the coast was finally clear, (Sidenote, in my childhood, I definitely, totally thought that saying was, "The ghost is clear" Ugh. Idiot.) I made a valiant escape to the haven of the sink. But OF COURSE, things continued to be tragic. This sink, for some dim-witted environmental reason, I'm sure, only dispensed water when you turned the knob and immediately, infuriatingly, entirely ceased to do so once let go. So, there I am, giving soaping and lathering with one hand the old college try. I succeed, as always. But can we not find it appropriate to allow our fellow man the liberty of maybe 5 seconds of solid water dispersal? Can we not?
My hands were now a washed Church and State. I made my way for my arch-bathroom-nemesis, the paper towel dispenser. Now, I like to have my hands completely dry before exiting the bathroom. Call me crazy. Alright, except for the times when I'm just achin' the spritz the remaining liquid from my just-washed hands onto someone (usually someone I know) and say, "Ew, sorry, I peed on my hands!" These cases are sporadic. I am a big fan of the air blades, which are kind of revolutionary. So, A. they get shit done and B. I feel trendy using them. Win/Win. Was there a hand-dryer worthy of PerezHilton immorality present? Le no. I stepped up to battle, the motion-sensor automatic paper towel dispensor looming in the foreground. I have a letter just WAITING to be angrily addressed, lick-sealed, postmarked and sent away to whomever came up with these demon thangs.
I would mainly like to know, whose hands does an index card sized piece of paper towel dry? If you can find me these prevalent elfin folk, I will shut the front door. But until then, I will be that guy standing in front of the machine, repeatedly swiping my hand until I have ample paper product present to perform the task at hand. Ha.
