It happened again today. Something was wrong with the gents’ bathroom and I wanted to wash my hands. What to do? What to do? Yep. I did it. I washed my paws in the room marked “Ladies.” The door was wide open; no one was in there; and the sink was calling my name: “David... David... come wash up in here.” If you’ve ever heard a sink calling your name, you'd best just give in and not argue. It’s bad enough to admit that sinks talk to you, but once you’re seen arguing with porcelain fixtures, it's all over. So, I washed my hands in the ladies’ room. Big deal. It’s not like I walked out wanting to take up macramé or quilting. Nobody sprayed me with estrogen. It’s just a bathroom. In my house, we don’t even label our bathrooms. It’s first come, first served, one size fits all. You get the idea.
One thing did strike me about my visit. I noticed that the ladies’ room didn’t have many of the features that the men’s rooms have. For instance, most men’s room have a distinct odor. The ladies’ room didn’t smell bad at all. If anything, it actually smelled nice and flowery. Whose idea was that? We gents maintain that odor so we all can get in and out of the bathroom in a hurry. If you gals keep your bathroom smelling fresh and inviting, you’re going to actually want to spend time in there. Do you know what this will do? You’ll have long lines of people waiting to get in. And you’ll want to go to the bathroom in groups, just like you’re going to a flower show. Is that really what you want? Really?
Another thing that this ladies’ room didn’t have were the little extras we gents have. After I washed my hands, I looked around for the drink machine. Nothing. Then I scanned the room for the pretzel stand and the salad bar. Again, nothing. And get this: there was no music playing because they didn’t even have a jukebox! Seriously! I was shocked. Maybe this was a less-than-standard powder room. Maybe this one was being renovated and the goodies hadn’t yet been installed. I just know it wasn’t a place I planned on visiting again, even though it did smell a little like fresh roses and lilacs.
David McCoy, a notorious storyteller and proud Yellow Jacket, lives in Covington and can be reached at firstname.lastname@example.org.