When you have to visit a public toilet, you usually find a
line of women, so you smile politely and
take your place. Once it's your turn, you check
for feet under the cubicle doors. Every cubicle is
occupied.


Finally, a door opens and you dash in, nearly knocking down
the woman leaving the cubicle. You get in to find
the door won't latch. It doesn't matter, the wait
has been so long you are about to wet your
pants!


The dispenser for the modern 'seat covers' (invented
by someone's Mum, no doubt) is handy, but empty.
You would hang your bag on the door hook, if there
was one, so you carefully, but quickly drape it
around your neck, (Mum would turn over in her
grave if you put it on
the
FLOOR!)
down with your pants and assume ' The
Stance.


In this position, your aging, toneless, thigh muscles
begin to shake. You'd love to sit down, but having
not taken time to wipe the seat or to lay toilet
paper on it, you hold 'The
Stance.'


To take your mind off your trembling thighs, you
reach for what you discover to be the empty toilet
paper dispenser.


In your mind, you can hear your mother's voice
saying, 'Dear, if you had tried to clean the seat,
you would have
KNOWN
there was no toilet paper!' Your thighs shake
more.


You remember the tiny tissue that you blew your nose
on yesterday - the one that's still in your bag
(the bag around your neck, that now you have to
hold up trying not to strangle yourself at the
same time). That would have to do, so you crumple
it in the puffiest way possible. It's still
smaller than your
thumbnail.


Someone pushes your door open because the latch doesn't
work.


The door hits your bag, which is hanging around your
neck in front of your chest and you and your bag
topple backward against the tank of the
toilet.


'Occupied!' you scream, as you reach for the door, dropping
your precious, tiny, crumpled tissue in a puddle
on the floor, while losing your footing altogether
and sliding down directly onto
the TOILET SEAT.
It is wet of course. You bolt up, knowing all too
well that it's too late. Your bare bottom has made
contact with every imaginable germ and life form
on the uncovered seat because YOU never laid down
toilet paper - not that there was any, even if you
had taken time to try.


You know that your mother would be utterly appalled if
she knew, because you're certain her bare bottom
never touched a public toilet seat because,
frankly, dear, 'You just
don't KNOW what kind of diseases you could
get.


By this time, the automatic sensor on the back of the
toilet is so confused that it flushes, propelling
a stream of water like a fire hose against the
inside of the bowl and spraying a fine mist of
water that covers your bum and runs down your legs
and into your shoes.


The flush somehow sucks everything down with such
force and you grab onto the empty toilet paper
dispenser for fear of being dragged in
too.


At this point, you give up. You're soaked by the
spewing water and the wet toilet seat. You're
exhausted. You try to wipe with a sweet wrapper
you found in your pocket and then slink out
inconspicuously to the
sinks.


You can't figure out how to operate the taps with the
automatic sensors, so you wipe your hands with
spit and a dry paper towel and walk past the line
of women still waiting


You are no longer able to smile politely to them. A
kind soul at the very end of the line points out a
piece of toilet paper trailing from your shoe.
(Where was that when you
NEEDED
it?)


You yank the paper from your shoe, plunk it in the
woman's hand and tell her warmly, 'Here, you just
might need this.


As you exit, you spot your hubby, who has long since
entered, used and left the men's toilet. Annoyed,
he asks, 'What took you so long and why is your
bag hanging around your
neck?


This is dedicated to women everywhere who deal with any
public rest rooms/toilets (rest??? you've GOT to
be kidding!!). It finally explains to the men what
really does take us so long. It also answers that
other commonly asked question about why women go
to the toilets in pairs. It's so the other gal can
hold the door, hang onto your bag and hand you
Kleenex under the door.


This HAD to be written by a woman! No one else could
describe it so accurately.