Tuesday, 29 May 2012

When you gotta go...

I had to go.

Sure, I tried to hold it as long as I could, but I had to. 

I'd received the corporate communication not only about the appropriate times to go, but also the appropriate ways to go. At one point, it even specified to keep the two out of the one hole. How crazy is that? Sadly, not all that crazy. I've worked in places like that before, and there's always at least one person who is beyond clueless. The one that makes you ask questions that you never thought you'd ask before. "Is there any education requirement for this job?" or "Can you really expect a person to keep their elementary school graduation documentation" or "IS there elementary school graduation documentation?" ... Regardless of all of this, I had to go. 

I walked through the door and turned to the left.  I was allowed to use these because it was a one and not a two. Thank god for that email refresher. There were only two there. Why on gods green earth would any man build this room and only leave two of these here? There's no way a man built this room. Not one chance. Any man would build one, three, or five. In stadium situations it'd be much larger surely, but in those situations all bets are off. If you put 50,000 people into the Dome for a game, and 30,000 of us are men, and 25,000 of us men are drinking, the rooms are massive and no one cares where anyone else stands. There's no room. There's no time. As we stand in the room there's some act of incredible drama connected to sport and we're in such a rush to get back to it that it's a damn good thing we're all standing in this room. Except for Jim. He's sitting down in that little box with a bad case of the twos. You never get the Nachos at the Dome. But I digress. 

The room I'm in now only has two to choose from, I could go into the box but that'd be strange... right? If someone else was to come in and I'm just standing in the box and there's no one outside of it, then it looks like I'm either rolling a joint or doing coke. Seeing as how I don't do either of those things, I can't have rumours flying around the office saying otherwise. I can't use the box. I have to stand here and pick one of the two then hope and wish that no other man joins me in here. 

Everything is going perfectly. I'm practising my cursive, and then it happens. I hear the door open. This is one of those times where I wish performance anxiety could kick in halfway. If I walked into the room and there were only two and the box was full, I'd be terrified. Who wants to be the second guy? This makes me realize that this probably won't turn out too badly, it's not this guy I need to worry about it's the NEXT guy. That's what I thought at least... 

Nope. It's this guy. See this guy has some kind social defect where he wasn't raised to respect another mans space in this room. We all know the rules. You provide space! If there's only two standing spots and there's two or more available boxes, you go to the box and give the man space! I can't be seen to be freaking out though. It's fine. Everything is going to be fine. Maybe he was just raised differently. This isn't worth panicking about. I'll just finish what I was doing, maybe without the cursive, and get the hell out of here. Eyes forward...

The fact that this dude has now half turned his body in my direction can be taken as nothing other than a complete affront on all things we've agreed upon as a civilized people. Who turns toward the other guy? This is feeling like some kind of dream. If this person is ever in any kind of adoption process, either dog or person, I want some say in the matter. Clearly this man isn't right. I'm going to send a follow up email adding additional rules about the box and the turn. This might be the most uncomfortable moment of my life, but I'll carry on. Eyes forward... 

I'm finished now and having concluded the appropriate amount of shaking it out, I need to wash my hands. I feel dirty. What kind of man turns!? I've finished washing my hands and as I turn the little wheel that's needed when paper towel isn't already hanging out, I think about how many people with fully germed hands have touched this wheel. I feel more dirty. I feel violated. 

I slowly walk back to my desk. Dignity shaken, but I hold my head high. I imagine that once I left the room this man was taking a two in the one hole. Nevertheless, what he's done to me sticks with me. These people carry on with their lives like nothing's happened. They clearly have no idea what horrors await in the bathroom. 

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