Please Don’t Talk To Me In The Bathroom

Please Don't Talk To Me In The Bathroom

I’m pretty indifferent about my current job. It pays the bills, I never find myself doing work at home after hours and my coworkers can be annoying at times, but whose aren’t? In any office, there is always going to be a Bill in HR that asks you how your weekend was on Monday morning. You wanna know how my weekend was, Bill? Really? I got shitfaced Friday, Saturday, and Sunday and now I’m paying for it. The four Advil I just ate aren’t working and the coffee here sucks ass. Now get away from me. I have e-mails to catch up on.

This of course, is all stuff you say in your head. I always go with the tried and true “It was actually really relaxing. I caught up on some errands and went out with friends on Saturday night.” But one thing that I will never ever understand in the American office setting is the inherent need by some select individuals to decide they need to talk to me in the bathroom.

It seems like every time I’m going to the bathroom, whether it’s to take a 1, drop the kids off at the pool, or simply sit in a stall and scroll through my Instagram account, there’s some jackalobe that wants to shoot the shit with me. Sorry, Ralph. My bladder’s a little full right now, and I don’t really want to talk to you about the Bears while you’re trying to squeeze a few drops out of your barely functioning pen15. And if we could also do away with the grunting and absurd guttural noises that I guess every man over 40 makes while their using the restroom, I’d appreciate it. Can you not take a piss without burping, farting, or saying “ahhhhh”? Man, I hate people sometimes.

No joke, I’ll see guys go into the bathroom and just talk to each other at the sink for upwards of ten minutes. What the fuck? When did this become acceptable behavior for adults? I’d love to have access to a private bathroom, but my last name isn’t Costanza, and I don’t work for the New York Yankees. I’m the lowest guy on the totem pole, so that means using a bathroom that’s available to the rest of the peons that work on my floor.

Also, I don’t know who put a three digit code on the men’s bathroom on my floor, but why? It’s not like this bathroom on the 30th floor has nuclear codes in it. Nuclear bombs, maybe, from disgusting middle aged men that eat their weight in street meat from food trucks outside, but nothing that should require a passcode.

Does this phenomenon occur in women’s restrooms as well? I mean yeah, most office bathrooms will have couches in the women’s room, but I don’t think girls are just going in there and chilling on the couch when the only noise emanating from within is pee hitting porcelain.

When I get up from my desk to use the bathroom, I want a break from everything. A break from the three monitors full of bullshit (yeah, pretty baller, I know), the 65-year-old woman sitting 10 feet from me who needs to just quit already because she doesn’t actually do anything. All of it. The bathroom is my escape from reality for a few minutes, just let me have that for the love of everything that is holy. Don’t talk to me in the bathroom, you’ll just be embarrassed when I pretend like I didn’t hear you.

Have some tact, fellas. There’s a time and a place for office small talk, and next to me at a urinal is not the place. From here on out, I’ve instituted a no-talking rule while I’m in the bathroom. Anyone that is asking me questions in the bathroom won’t get a response. MAYBE a “sup?” head nod. But I’m not going for high fives and I’m sure as shit not going to talk shop with you while I’m washing my hands. It smells terrible in here like 50% of the time, and I’m not trying to replay my weekend for you while Jerry is dropping bombs in a stall mere feet from where we’re standing.

Image via Shutterstock

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Johnny D

fashion icon. @dudaronomy on twitter. e-mail:

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