Sanitation Sexism

(Not for the squeamish. You’ve been warned.)

Today’s topic is public restrooms. I’ve been in more than my share of Men’s Rooms, but only as a tourist. Focus on the distaff side of the sanitary divide, mostly because in this context I’m ashamed of my gender. I’ve been told that Men’s Rooms are always filthy. So stipulated. Not arguing. The Women’s Rooms are still worse.

Somehow I missed the memo that there’s a prize for the most Jackson Pollack-like toilet seat. The sight that really got me was a bright pink lipstick smear on the outside edge of an otherwise reasonably clean seat. That smear will remain an enigma forever. Feminine hygiene, for the most part, isn’t.

The true nasty secret that they don’t want you to know is how few women wash their hands in public. The ones who don’t are almost belligerent in their nonchalance. If so many of them hadn’t given me dirty looks (pun intended) as I stood at the sink, I might not have written this.

I used to equate the people who grab a paper towel for the germy door handle on their way out with those other people who wear tinfoil hats to protect them from alien rays zapping their brains. I’m not reaching for an extra paper towel just yet, but those tinfoil hats are starting to look kind of snazzy.