Trapped in the Women's Washroom: A True Story (or, finally, I have finished this post)

I think it was Edmunston, New Brunswick on the drive back from a soggy camping trip, during which I camped in the rain in all three maritime provinces. Forget rain dances or cloud seeding: if you want rain, just hire me to go camping where you want it to fall. I am rain man.

By Edmunston, my bladder needed relief, so we (A and I) pulled up to some sort of a mall-like place and headed in. This was long enough ago that I cannot remember the name of the store, but it was something like Zellers or K-mart. Anyway, we found the washrooms easily enough, but they were locked and a notice said that we had to ask to be buzzed in. Just as I was about to ask the attendant, A said, "just come into the women's washroom."

I am not sure why that sounded like a good idea. I must have assumed that this would have been a small washroom with one stall. Later, I wondered if it had to do with a childhood experience. When I was 12 or 13, I had a part-time job doing some custodial work for a local idiot. I tidied up, emptied ash trays (that skill came in very handy when I later worked as a bartender), and some other mundane tasks.

The highlight came when I went into the women's washroom after some event. What a palace! The men's room can only be described as dirty, ugly, utilitarian, and boring. You know, there were urinals, toilets, sinks, paper towels, mirrors, etc. In contrast, the women's washroom had bizarre dispensers on the wall, better colours, and get this - a sofa! I had never seen a sofa in a washroom before. What luxury. What decadence. Even at that age, I knew that women tended to go to the can in herds, and now I knew why. They sat on the sofa and lounged.

You see, that would never work in a men's room (for many reasons). Besides, no one wants to linger too long in a men's washroom. There is too much risk of an overt attack on one's olfactory nerve.

Years later, I wondered if I went into the women's bathroom to verify that there is some serious inequities in washrooms. In all of those years, I have never encountered anything that could be described as luxury in a men's washroom. Well, there were those few washroom attendants who hand you towels, but I always felt sorry for them, having to sit there listening to men fart and groan.

So, I went in and was amazed to discover a huge washroom, complete with about 10 stalls, half a dozen sinks, but, sadly, no sofa or chair of any variety. This was New Brunswick, so maybe that was the reason. Clearly, there are no urinals in female restrooms, so I choose a stall, dropped my pants, and then, before I could even start, about ten women came in. There I was, pants around my ankles, afraid to go, fearing that the sound of masculine micturition would give away my gender, when I had already done so, by dropping my drawers. Women, I found out later, do not do that: they only pull them part way down. Who knew?

Eventually, I had to go, and managed to keep it quiet. The trouble was, there was a constant stream of women coming in, and I panicked that I would never be able to leave. A loitered in front of the mirror, waiting for a good time to usher me out of my temporary prison. After half an hour, or so it seemed, she gave the all-clear. We walked to the door, and opened it, just as a large group of women flooded in. We got very strange looks and one women looked so perplexed, I thought she would summon security, so I fled as fast as I could - without looking like a shoplifter - to the Volkswagen in the parking lot.

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