The Constant Flusher

I never thought it would happen. I swore up and down that I was against it. That it was unsanitary. Unnecessary. Unhealthy.

I have become . . . wait for it . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . a bathroom reader.

A former co-worker of mine, a temp at the age of 52, the most uncouth slovenly creature you can imagine for multiple reasons, used to steal whatever newspaper he was too cheap to buy, tuck it under one flabby arm and shuffle off towards the men's room, yelling at himself (he was also insane). Should you interrupt him on the way, such an exchange was common:

"Hey Scott, oh, I'm sorry, you look like you're in a hurry -"

"Ts'alright. I'm just about to make a big stinky."

Ew. Ew. Ew.

However, I've taken to opening my mail on the can. (at home). I especially enjoy flipping through Time Out New York and making sure everyone I hate is a failure, that their names aren't in bold print anywhere. It's incredibly healthy, especially while taking a dump. But when you get in the habit of reading on the can and you go to dump outside of the home .. well, you can imagine. I sit there, in the office ladies room, a high traffic area to be sure, wishing for anything, even my wallet. I'd read old ATM receipts. I'd check the expiration dates on my credit cards, drivers license. I'd remind myself how to spell my name. I'm terrified enough as it is dumping in public and now, without the comfort of reading materials or the sense of accomplishment other than the dump itself . . . I'm absolutely stymied.

And I can't bring reading materials in with me. I work with girls who smell good. Who dress well. Who have shoes that make noise when they walk. Whose trousers respectfully hug their buttocks without looking office-inappropriate, a feat I've never managed to pull off. These girls frequent the gym. Their engagement rings twinkle in fluorescent light. I'm confident that they don't keep their underwear in an antique wooden milkcrate or have a broken vibrator that sounds like Gilbert Gottfried's voice upon use. These women actually buy new mascara every two months and moisturize everywhere everyday. Their hair is shiny, their lunches healthy and they have names like Jodi, Lia and Ashley. I cannot dump with an Ashley in a bathroom with me and I certainly can't enter or exit clutching this week's People to my not-as-perky-as-it-used-to-be bosom.

And so, in the workplace, I have become the constant flusher. If even so much as a silent one, which may or not ultimately be silent, hints at emission, I flush. And flush. And flush.