Love Letter to the Women’s Restroom

Dear Ladies’ Room of the General Administration Building,

What can I say? It’s been a great run. When we first met, I was a 26 year old kid embarking on a new career journey. After a hiatus of four years, I wasn’t exactly thrilled with the idea of sharing three stalls with thirty women again. My fears were quickly calmed when, soon after we were introduced, an elderly co-worker asked me to go get her a magazine as she blew up the designated pooping toilet.

I soon learned to maneuver around the rules of the road. As a courtesy, poopers should use the far stall (though I must say in times of tummyache, I most often fled to an adjacent building “safe haven” to blend in with the students). If someone was obviously in need of a dump, we should pee and wash hands as quickly as possible in order to allow privacy. Of course, there were always the ones living on the edge, those who dawdled and chatted and fixed their hair and makeup and took an hour to floss their teeth. Maybe this was their sanctuary, a place to get away from the grind of work. I’m sorry that I didn’t appreciate you more. To me, you were always just a place to pee.

That’s not quite true. You saw me through some heartache, some medical problems and a twin pregnancy during which I swear we met up every ten minutes. Most importantly, you were gracious enough to allow me to take a million baby bump selfies with one of your porcelain thrones photobombing in the background:

bellycollage

Oh, ladies’ room. As I checked the keys to my new office, I went by the new restroom. It’s nice, with six stalls, pretty fixtures and new and modern conveniences. However, I want to let you know that it holds none of your charm. There are no mysteries behind the walls of this new granite-and-stainless-steel bathroom paradise. Maybe now I’ll never know why you had a couch from the 1980s located within your walls, and I’ll stop wondering who in the world would sit on it when it had been collecting toilet flushing particles for 30 years. Maybe I’ll never know who decided which locker belonged to which woman and why I never received one. Maybe I’ll never know why the middle stall autoflusher always managed to flush on me two or three times before I could escape. These are mysteries for a new generation of employees who you will soon meet. Be kind to them.

As I prepare to say goodbye and move into my new digs Monday, I want to let you know that even though I didn’t always appreciate you while we were together, I will not forget you. I can’t promise that you will never see me again, but I’ll be a visitor. You’ll never be my bathroom again. Keep up the good work.

Until we meet again,

allysign

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