I work in a small seven-person office, and I like a lot of things about that. Close quarters are friendly, most everyone gets their own office (I’m in a space far larger than I deserve), and whenever you need anything you can just shout for it instead of getting up and walking. I’m not about getting those Fitbit steps in every time I have a question. My office ratio skews 5:2 women to men, and my male boss is a dude out in the field doing business, so normally it’s just me in here holding it down for the dudes. Which is fine, usually.
But, I come to you today as a man staring at an empty cup of coffee, knowing he shouldn’t have drained its contents twice in 2 hours. A man who had three bean, cheese, egg, & bacon breakfast tacos instead of the usual two. A man sweating and shaking at the keyboard because the enemy is pounding at the gates and the troops are giving a last ditch effort to fortify the walls. On the outside I’m a calm dude doing some business. On the inside I’m a raging inferno of fear, pain, and desperation.
I need to let this dump escape me like the fiery lava of Mt. Doom, but the drawback of a small office is that the single stall restroom is shared and in the vicinity of at least two women at all times. Some would say, “Just go man,” but pulling the trigger on this just isn’t an option.
That dumping throne is door-to-desk no more than ten feet from multiple female coworkers. At our old office, the restroom was mercifully down a hall, where one could discretely walk in and enjoy their bowel movements without anyone being aware of it. But not now; not anymore. As much as I want to hop out of my uncomfortable-ass chair and cramp walk to the shit palace, I know I’ll pop up on multiple radars the minute I open that door.
Am I being gun-shy? Definitely. But walking in there is like Han Solo getting lowered into the carbonite chamber; soon I’ll be confronted with a black-steel colored substance that makes my face contort. Can’t just walk past multiple women with that strained look on my face that screams, “This isn’t just pee ladies, it’s about to go down in there.” I like to take my time when I’m popping my squat, maybe scroll Twitter or set my fantasy lineups. I’ve been known to have red marks on my thighs upon flush time. There’s just zero chance that level of enjoyment and relaxation can be had knowing that two members of the opposite sex are likely sitting out there saying, “Jesus, he’s been in there forever, what’s he doing, and what’re those noises?”
Now chivalry may be on life-support, but I still try to prioritize manners in my life. And I may not be a scientist, but last I heard, taking a dump smells pretty damn bad. In a secluded bathroom with some safe distance away? Yeah, I’m gonna blow that up on the reg. Not here. Occasionally I wish I gave fewer fucks, but I hope I never become the guy who doesn’t care about igniting nostrils with stench like I’m using my own private commode. Those poor women are seated in a splash zone, but unlike a captivity-raised Orca, I’m going to decline to flop in the water.
Could I take a quick 15 minute break and drive to the gas station down the street? Sure, I’ve seen my boss use the same tactic. But I’m about as far away from that gas station dump life as I can be. Two things I don’t trust in life are sports team mascots and gas station bathrooms. As the ache from constant clenching forms in my lower back, I must leave this narrative behind and focus on the task at hand. Only an hour remains until I can rid myself of this demon, so until then I will stoically continue to half-ass my work and hold in my ass. Because I’m a gentleman..