The other day, I walked into my work bathroom, and had a very difficult decision: regular stall or handicapped stall. Now I know there’s some sort of twisted guy science to picking a urinal, and I think that there’s a similar science to women choosing a stall. I either choose the stall closest to me in order to minimize time wasted in the bathroom. Or I choose the handicapped stall.
While I was coming to this awkwardly timed realization, I started wondering… I’m willing to bet I’m not the only one with a tendency towards choosing the handicapped stall. But, um, why? It’s not a bedroom or a new apartment. It’s not like I have legs up to my elbows. Why, exactly, do I feel the need to have an extra square foot or two while I sit on my porcelain throne for an average 21 seconds (Blech, what poor person has to do that research)?
All potty talk aside, I decided it has to do with my culture – and I say my culture because it’s likely other people aren’t as “cultured” in this sense as I am. I grew up with brothers and have always felt competitive. I compete for attention, time, internships. I, friends, am a squirrel. I squirrel away, hoard, and fight to keep jobs, relationships, money, winning, stuff (why do you think I need Perfect 10). I keep score.
It’s a problem. I think.
This isn’t one of those posts where I wax poetic on how I’m going to downsize my life and minimize and revamp my intentions and whatever other advice I learned in my most recent self-help selection. I’m just saying I sometimes venture into the bathroom. And I have thoughts. And sometimes they happen at the same time. I’m also going to probably go against my intuition when it comes to picking stalls from now on, lest I go with the stall that most people contaminate.
You’re welcome for that visual.