Dripping to the top

Tonight, I went to Blockbuster for a really bad movie. Matthew’s out of town, so I have guilt-free anonymous liaisons with trash media, then never tell anyone but the internet about it. Fortunately, this is a blog. No one reads blogs anymore, right? Just Twitter?

Anyway, I’m at Blockbuster picking up a Lindsay Lohan straight to DVD movie when I realize I have to pee. Pretty bad. But I’ve used Blockbuster’s bathroom before, and, I gotta tell ya, I’m plannin on holdin it til I get back to the house. It’s not like Blockbuster’s bathrooms are gross or anything, it’s just that it’s a *huge* production. I mean, first you have to ask at the desk, and they oh-so surreptitiously announce it over the intercom that a manager needs to let a customer into the bathroom. Just in case you don’t feel embarrassed yet, you have to stand around waiting for someone with the keys while that whole, long, Friday night check-out line stares at you. Makes you feel real classy.

But the Blockbuster pee party doesn’t end there. Not only is a key-holding manager necessary to let you in, but they stand there and guard the door after you go in. Process that. You’re peeing. A Blockbuster employee is on the other side of the door waiting for you. Which is more humiliating? The peeing or pee-observing? I really don’t want to find out from experience because I’ve got to say that pee observation sounds hand’s down more humiliating than being spied on. And what do they think I’m doing in there? If I were desperate enough to go through all this pee-drama, I can assure you that I’m there on serious business.

Blockbuster. Friday night. Bad movie. I *will not* pee in Blockbuster. I *will not* pee in Blockbuster. I can totally hold it til I get home.

Right.

Half-way to my car, I realize that this is probably not going to go according to plan, but I am determined that I am not turning around and going into Blockbuster. I, Christine Wy, am going to make it home. No. No I’m not. OK, there’s a decent gas station really close by, I’ll just duck in there.

I headed to the bathroom. I could hear flushing sounds, so I knew someone was in there, and I figured I wouldn’t have long to wait for her to come out. Not long enough. Immediately after the flush, the door opened, and out walked an attractive young woman. “Oh my god, she didn’t wash her hands!” was my first thought, being a germ-obsessed weirdo. Ew. Now, being skeptical of her hygiene, I decided to check the toilet seat to see if she had peed all over it—I absolutely loathe seat pee-ers. Yup. The non-hand-washing attractive woman had peed all over it. Dammit.

I weighed my options. Wipe the seat and sit, or perch and add my own spray to the Pollack-speckled seat? I opted for perch.

Relieved of my troubles, literally, I realized to my horror that now someone else was standing outside the bathroom waiting to use it. Oh no! Now this stranger is going to think I peed all over the seat, when really it was a whole urine chain of events that were now completely out of my control!

I did what any level-headed gas station restroom user would do: I tore off extra toilet paper and wiped down the seat. I cared enough what a gas station stranger using the restroom after me would think that I actually wiped down her throne. I’m ashamed, sad, and confused, but that lady will always think, “What a clean, attractive young woman that was peeing before me!