Thursday, January 24, 2013

Don't Eat Dinner In The Ladies' Loo

So I had that dream again. The one where I'm in an endless public restroom.


A bit of back story: I will give myself a bladder infection if it means avoiding a public restroom. I will squat in a parking lot before I use a public restroom. I have been in public restrooms all over the world and I hate them all. I have a reaction similar to a panic attack if someone is in the stall next to me. If I have to use one - or, as is most often the case, one of my children has to - I spend the next few hours convinced that at best we've contracted a dreadful stomach virus. At worst... only Dr. House knows. My happy-go-lucky, lasseiz faire, live and let live attitude stops at the threshold of the public potty door. As soon as I set foot into one of  those echo chambers of filth and all manner of unmentionable-ness, I become fierce, territorial, paranoid and elitist. I don't want to hear your shuffling feet, your zipping fly, your sighs of relief or your rolling toilet paper. I will jump out of my skin if - for the love of all that's holy! - I hear your bodily function noises in any form. And you absolutely may not, under any circumstances whatsoever, poop near me.


I have a recurring dream where I am stuck in an endless public restroom. It only seems fitting, somehow.

This was one of the posh ones - with soft lighting and marble counters and an attendant. (Small digression here: Have you ever read David Foster Wallace's piece about a restroom attendant? It's in Brief Interviews With Hideous Men. It is both brilliant and terrifying.) So I'm sitting in this posh, public restroom (lipstick on a pig, my friends, lipstick on a pig!) eating dinner. You know how some restaurants have that special table in the kitchen that you have to reserve months and months in advance? Well this was like that, except that it is in the ladies' room. I'm dining with a friend. The friend is no one I really know. I only know that she is female and that she is a close friend. I can't pin her down any more than that. We are enjoying steaks and convivial conversation, feeling a little bit naughty and decadent, like you do when you go out for a nice dinner while the husband feeds the kids hot dogs and mac and cheese at home. I am having a good time and feeling special that we got this primo table when the lighting shifts just a little bit. Barely perceptible, but enough to make things feel a wee bit ominous. A well dressed man comes rushing into the ladies' room and flings himself into a stall where he then proceeds to become violently ill. Violently and loudly. Excessively.

I jump up, horrified, completely uninterested in my steak, and I run. The door through which the man has come is gone and there is only the endless stretch of restroom which has morphed into a sort of subway station atmosphere - echoing tile, greenish flickering fluorescent lighting, grime and litter - completely lined with stalls. Most of the stalls are occupied with people in the midst of horrible, private activities. I run and I run and I run, haunted and chased by the man's voluble and voluminous retching. I feel no sympathy for the man, only disgust and anger. My friend is chasing me, trying to explain that it's OK, I should settle down, we'll work it out, just ignore it. I am deciding that she is crazy because there's no way to ignore it and anyway, it was her stupid idea to go out to eat and shut up and help me find the maître d'.

This is the point in the dream where I am so sound asleep, so entrenched in this complete nonsense that I am positive that I will reside in this horrible bathroom forever, wandering until I am either starved or die of typhoid, forced to witness the horrors of human waste in all of its forms for eternity. This is where I start to cry in exhaustion and desperation. It is always at this point in these dreams - the point where I give up and give in to despair - that I find whatever it is I'm looking for. In this case, the maître d'.

I am breathless, choked with indignation, I can barely speak I am so angry. "That man! That man in the ladies' room!" It seems the pinnacle of injustice to me that he is in the wrong restroom. "That man is throwing up so loudly it has ruined my dinner!" I am screaming at the calm maître d' in a way that I have rarely screamed at anyone in my waking life. "And he's in the ladies' room! Fix it! This is unacceptable!" 

In the process of all of this screaming, the background fades back to that of a really nice restaurant where nice people are calmly eating their nice dinners. There is no man horking up his internal organs; only me, creating a spectacle and screaming at the top of my lungs. The maître d' appraises me calmly and says "Why were you eating in the ladies' room?" and I am completely devastated. I sputter and stammer and try to explain and there is no explanation. I am overwhelmed by the complete unfairness of it all and anger at myself and at the barfing man and the smug people eating their dinner so calmly in the dining room and the maître d' with his critical eye and silly coat and suddenly I'm full of doubt and I wake up.


That's it. I'm just gonna leave this with you. Draw your own conclusions.
Here's mine: you can't blame a guy for barfing near you if you're going to dine in a public restroom. Or something like that. 

23 comments:

  1. Even the way you write about your dreams is amazing!

    ReplyDelete
    Replies
    1. You're sweet, Judy. I'm sorry that you read this. It's gross.

      Delete
  2. Yeah, that is a nightmare for sure. But I have to admit it made me laugh! Thanks for sharing it! :)

    ReplyDelete
    Replies
    1. Sadly, this barely even qualified as a nightmare for me. More just a run-of-the-mill dream.

      Delete
  3. All of my nightmares are about starving, neglected animals that it turns out I forgot I had. It has never occurred to me to be afraid of public restrooms. The greater fool am I. Love it.

    ReplyDelete
    Replies
    1. HOW CAN YOU NOT BE AFRAID OF PUBLIC RESTROOMS?!?!?!

      Delete
  4. The most common one for me is that I desperately need to use the bathroom, but all of the stalls are either door-less, overflowing with filth, or the walls are extremely short.

    When I was living in residence at University, I kept having one where I'm in there brushing my teeth and someone comes along behind me, grabs me by the hair and proceeds to beat the snot out of me.

    I think it's situational, really.

    ReplyDelete
  5. Hmmmmm... so what is going on with you that that you are in this place that you so much hate and it takes a retching, disgusting character to get you to run out of it?
    I HATE public restrooms too - for all the reasons you mentioned - I even hate the ones at work (which are, of course, public) but I can't not use them - I just have my ways....

    ReplyDelete
    Replies
    1. I know, right? It's not as dire as all that. My subconscious is just a drama queen.

      Delete
  6. I have been in so many public restrooms that I just don't care any more. I have the tiniest tank in the world and I have visited nearly every public restroom in every city I've visited. It takes a lot for me to refuse to go.

    I also have a recurring potty dream. Generally, I'm somewhere nice-ish and the chair I'm sitting on doubles as a toilet. I can go wherever I am. But, I'm always concerned that I can't get my pants down (or skirt out of the way) without being noticed. This is usually where I wake up because I have to pee.

    ReplyDelete
    Replies
    1. Ah! That's so funny. Do you ever pee your bed just a little bit when you have that dream? I think I would.
      Tiny tanks are a curse.

      Delete
  7. The thing that creeps me out the most about public restrooms (besides the obviously-haven't-been cleaned-this-year ones) is seeing women leave the stall and head right out the door without hitting the soap and water. Eeeewww. What the hell? And then, of course, they touch the doorknob as they exit, leaving their cooties all over it.

    I've witnessed this frequently enough and have seen way too many moms change their kids' diapers and then not wash their hands that I've grown unwilling to eat foods made by people I don't know really, really well. I have daycare parents who bring me homemade treats somewhat regularly and with very few exceptions, I thank them for their kindness and then toss the plates into the trash. *shivers*

    ReplyDelete
    Replies
    1. You are a wise, wise woman. How can people not wash their hands?! Animals, I tell you. Animals. Rest assured, if ever I bake you anything, I will have washed my hands repeatedly and obsessively.

      Delete
  8. Are you serious? Did you really dream this? I am hysterical and so, so sorry that you such an awful dream!

    ReplyDelete
    Replies
    1. I really did. I generally don't share my dreams because they are often vivid and disturbing to the general public.

      Delete
  9. What freaks me out the most in public restrooms, is only during the winter. If someone is wearing flip flops in 35 degree weather and they choose a stall by me, I can't handle it. It's happened before and I know I will rush to finish and leave with dripping wet hands just to avoid having to see the person who emerges from the stall!

    ReplyDelete
    Replies
    1. That is such a strange fear! Why the flip-flops? Is it because their feet are so close to bare in a public restroom? Or because they lack the good sense to wear proper footwear in the wintertime? They may just be Canadian, you know. Are you afraid of Canadians?

      Delete
  10. But the important question: how was the steak? No dessert?

    ReplyDelete
    Replies
    1. Steak is like pizza. It's almost always good; even when it's bad, it's kind of good. Unless it's not, then it's just unspeakable. You should know this, though. You live in the land of mediocre steak. The prime rib buffet at the Circus Circus is really dreadful, but at $5.95, I cleaned my plate and didn't complain.
      Sadly, no dessert. I had to flee. Steak is usually more fun than dessert anyway.

      Delete
  11. YOU MIGHT want to see a movie called DOORS. not the one about the bandou but the one about doors. well, perhaps not.

    ReplyDelete
    Replies
    1. I have seen that movie, thank you very much. Don't think I could watch it again.

      Delete
  12. Your moral of the story is brilliant life advice so as disturbing as that dream is/was, it has definitely served a positive purpose. :)

    ReplyDelete

Thanks for reading and taking the time to say hello!