Remember the days of being able to take a shit and not feel guilty about it? Those days have long since passed; we live in a post-Cold War era, where anything resembling a missile is a threat, an advance on civilization, a merciless front of plague and terror.
I blame terrorists. If those damn terrorists hadn’t bombed the twin towers, maybe we wouldn’t be so paranoid about taking craps. We’re now so concerned with everyone’s personal life that even the bathroom has become fodder for criticism.
Although my therapist would suggest that my confusion about bathroom etiquette spawns from a subconscious hatred of ‘letting go’, I think it’s simpler than that. You see, I was raised in a home where no one spoke of the bathroom. What you did in the bathroom remained there. Truly, it may have been too repressive, for if I was cursed with the runs as a kid, I had to gently state to my parents, “Please excuse me from the dinner table. I am experiencing the need to visit the little girls’ room.” No questions asked. If a smell lingered after a visit, you cracked a window and did not refer to the stench. In my father’s case, you might blame the cat. But you did not go into detail about the bathroom episode.
This was all fine and dandy with me, until I moved in with my boyfriend. Both of us are only children but have very different experiences of the bathroom. While we both shared one bathroom with our parents as we grew up, we have entirely different perspectives regarding toilets.
“I’m going to have a B.M. in the P.M.” Michael will announce after dinner. All the fantasies I have of Michael being my own personal demigod are smashed when he makes these statements. Suddenly, I have become all too aware of my own behavior in the bathroom. I’m spraying fumigated aerosols while perched on the throne; every gassy smell that I sense arising out of me is treated with scent. I wipe incessantly, insomuch that my butt has begun to look like that of an old woman. I worry about early colostomies; enema fairies threaten me during my sleep. In fact, I now check the contents of the toilet bowl, and, based on what I see, may take a ‘French’ bath after I examine the results. The whole trend makes me feel dirty and useless if I’ve just used regular toilet paper after taking a crap. In short, I’ve become anal about my anus.
But this new experience is not solely the fault of my very regular and expressive boyfriend. Bathroom ‘business’ is now a part of a marketing scheme making millions of dollars for the fat cats of the bathroom industry. Wile watching a documentary on Discovery, we’re reminded during a commercial break of how very important it is to ‘feel fresh and clean!’ and to purchase toilet paper that is immersed in Aloe Vera gel. Cuddly, animated bears appear from behind trees and do provocative dances with dampened toilet paper around the special dispensers for such paper. Baby wipes are now sold as adult wipes. When Outkast wrote that song about being so fresh and so clean, I think Andre was referring to some kind of procedure done after taking a dump. It’s absurd.
The fact of the matter is: I don’t want to know what’s going on in-between the cheeks of others. When I go into a store and see some stranger comparing sweet-smelling wipes to country fresh toilet paper, I envision that person on the toilet, wiping with the product of choice. No, thanks. All I care about in another individual is some kind of showering routine. People should be allowed to do their business in private. As for me, the next time I want to do something revolting, disgusting, and utterly human, I’ll do it with no shame, no fuss, and I’ll blame the cat for the stench.