Finally, it’s your turn! You push open the door, checking under the stalls for feet. All occupied. But then, like a miracle, one door opens. You rush forward, narrowly avoiding a collision with the person leaving, and dash inside.
As soon as you close the door, reality hits: the latch doesn’t work. Of course it doesn’t. But you’ve waited too long to care. Determined, you figure you’ll hold the door shut with one hand if needed. Next problem? No seat covers. Figures.
You glance at the floor, wondering where to put your purse, but no way—it’s not touching that germy surface. Instead, you loop it around your neck like a high-fashion accessory. With no time to waste, you yank down your pants and assume “The Stance”—legs bent, hovering over the seat like you’re in the middle of a squat in a workout class.
At first, you feel confident. But after a few seconds, your thighs start to tremble like jelly. You’d love to sit down, but who has time to wipe the seat or line it with toilet paper? Speaking of toilet paper, you reach for the dispenser… and it’s empty.
Your mom’s voice echoes in your head: “If you’d wiped the seat first, you’d have realized there was no toilet paper.” Great. You frantically dig through your purse (still hanging around your neck) and find a crumpled tissue you used yesterday. It’s about the size of a postage stamp.
And then it happens. The door, unlatched, flies open as someone pushes it. The door hits your purse, swinging it forward like a wrecking ball, throwing you off balance. You flail, trying to grab the door, but it’s too late—you topple backward into the toilet tank.
“Occupied!” you shout in panic, reaching for the door. Your tiny tissue falls to the floor, landing in a suspicious puddle. You regain your balance, only to slip and plop down onto the seat itself. Yes, it’s wet. Of course it’s wet.
Horrified, you spring up, but the damage is done. Your bare skin has touched every germ imaginable, and your mom’s voice is back: “You don’t know what kind of diseases are on there!”
And then, the automatic toilet sensor kicks in. With a vengeful flush, it sprays water everywhere—your butt, your legs, your pride. You grab the toilet paper dispenser for support, half-expecting to get sucked into the swirling abyss.
Defeated, you shuffle out of the stall to the sinks, drenched in toilet water. The automatic faucets, of course, don’t work, so you resort to spitting on your hands and wiping them with a paper towel.
As you exit, you catch a woman in line pointing at your shoe. There it is: a piece of toilet paper trailing behind you like a badge of shame. You peel it off, hand it to her with a wry smile and say, “You’re going to need this.”
Finally, you spot your husband waiting outside, looking fresh and relaxed after his 30-second trip to the men’s room. He looks at you, puzzled, and asks, “What took so long? And why is your purse around your neck?”
And that, my friends, is why women take so long in public restrooms. It’s also why we go in pairs—for door duty, purse security, and emergency tissue handoffs.
