Recently, in a fit of pique I posted a Facebook lament that had to do with toilet seats, urine, and boys who either have no courtesy or no sense of depth perception. The response was immediate—and also entirely female. My friend Jane even came up with various urine related facts, such as how there’s a university in Germany that discounts housing fees for men if they sign a pledge promising to always sit down when they pee, because the money they save on not having to replace/repaint the floors, walls and cabinetry more than makes up for the loss in rent money. She also suggested that we all start a campaign to encourage sitting, something along the lines of “March for Sitting” or “Dry Legs United.” I think that’s a brilliant idea, and am just a little bit sad that the yellow ribbon is already taken.
I am also a little bit sad that it has come to this—that we need to consider a freakin’ campaign to encourage half the population to clean up their own bodily fluids. And I can’t help but think that if the situation were reversed—if it were women who, through a quirk of biology, were liable to leave such a trail, than attitudes about it would be different. In fact, if that were the case then I’m pretty sure there would be laws against that sort of thing. But maybe that’s just my bitterness talking—or my wet legs.
I once read a short story about an alien culture where it was considered shockingly intimate to be in the same room when somebody else was eating. They felt about ingesting food the same way we feel about voiding it. Except for the fact that they took it one step further—not only would it make them uncomfortable to watch somebody else eat, it was also considered extremely unsavory to use the same utensils as someone else. I’m starting to think that maybe they had a point there.
After all, as was recently pointed out to me, the only thing worse than sitting on a cold toilet seat is sitting on a warm one. Maybe we should just start carrying around our own toilet seats, the way that people who are very strict about keeping kosher might carry around their own silverware. Sure, it would look a little strange at first, but so do all those Japanese people walking around with surgical masks on, and nobody makes fun of them. To their face. Much.
And who knows? Maybe we could even individualize our toilet seat covers, like people do with their cell phone cases. Although I’m not sure how I would feel about putting the face of my favorite fictional character on my toilet seat. I’m not saying I wouldn’t like it; I’m saying I’m afraid I would like it too much.
Of course, the best part about people carrying around their own toilet seats is that we would have evidence—maybe visual, certainly olfactory—of all of their “hits and misses.” I would hope that being chastised—or even shunned—by the general population would have a greater impact than just one mother shrieking in disgust from the bathroom. Just imagine how hard it would be to talk to your high school crush if you had to hold your toilet seat in your hand the whole time. Or how hard it would be to interview for that coveted grad school internship while still holding the evidence of your youthful deficiencies.
I know that I’m probably enjoying the thought of one half of the population’s impending humiliation way too much, but in my defense: wet legs. Warm wet legs. It’s enough to make anyone want to make a stand against such injustices. Or rather, take a seat.
Whatever. You know what I mean.