Some things just inspire me. Babies, yes. Extra meat toppings, yes. But most of all, Crystal Oaklee and bathrooms.
In my new fancy downtown office, everything is automated. You pee, it flushes. You wash hands, it gives you soap. You dry, it papers. You poop, it wipes. Well, maybe not, but you get the idea.
This phenomenon has made a fool of me. In my own home, and in the homes of those dear to me, I have stuck (stucken?) my hands beneath the faucet and waited for the flow, which didn't come.
Let me paint you a picture here: I'm at a rest stop in Eastern Ohio. I've been in a car with same six people for about twelve hours now. I've been driving for the last five of those hours. I'm nursing a tall coffee and a two-day hangover. The time is either 4:15 am or 3:15 am, because supposedly Indiana doesn't believe in Daylight Savings Time and in certain months that leaks into Ohio, or something. Like I said, I'm tired. The drive back from Boston is long.
I shuffle into the door, catching an unfortunate reflection of myself in the single-pane door. My hair is disgustingly everywhere. Also disgusting everywhere. I just remember to hold the door for my brothers, with a look like "you're welcome, and who's driving next?" which they didn't even notice because they're almost as tired as I am.
Then it's in to the bathroom, picking urinals with the requisite empty in between so that we take up almost the whole nine-peeshot-row. I know just enough to ignore the sludge on the urinal cake, but not enough to avoid eye contact. I stare into his eyes, and both zippers are down. That's a nay-nay.
But we shake it off, share an awkward chuckle, and move to the sinks. And that's when it happens. I lift my red eyes to meet his, hoping that this too shall pass. But he's busy turning the faucet on, so that when he turns and notices me, he's washing his hands. And what am I doing? Shuffling dry hands in an empty sink and staring. And nodding a little, until I realize, that once again, I'm the creeper, and automation has gotten me.
I'd make like those freaks from the New York Times who forswore all bathroom luxuries, but that's just gross. Plus, I think I might have just pooped in my pants.
So thanks for that, Crystal.