Living In A Man's World: The Bathroom
Bathroom;
A room containing a bathtub or shower, a toilet, and a sink
A man's throne, his kingdom, his sanctuary. The danger zone for women.
The danger zone.
I could spend days in that bathroom, cleaning until I collapsed, and it would still look the same.
This is why I keep my feminine toiletries in my room:
Every morning there are wet towels on the floor, pushed under the sink and forgotten until they spill out into the walkway. The closet door is still open, and I notice that a fallen towel is preventing it from shutting. I pick up the towel, taking no time to study the contents of the shelves. I already know what's there: Old Spice aftershave, a beard trimmer, manly blue disposable razors, a pack of unused Irish Spring soap (in bars), band aids (strown about), a box full of gauze pads and cough syrups and ointments and whatnot. Icy Hot pads rest off to one side, in easy reach of anyone in aid.
Toothpaste has crusted to the top of the sink, making camp beside the hair that has been separated from it's owner by a beard trimmer. I scrub it away and put the towels in the hamper, where they belong.
The mirror above the sink has had something smeared across it. Not knowing the contents of such a smear, I pull out a used towel, wet it, and then scrub the mirror. After wiping it dry, I move away. I don't care to know what the medicine cabinet looks like. I know the jist: nail clippers, Tylenol, and additional get-better pills. It may by the cleanest part of the entire bathroom.
The toilet seat is up, naturally, and whoever peed last has forgotten to flush. Perhaps nobody flushed. In any case, the yellow combination of DNA has got to go. I flush it, put the seat down, and then take a Colorox wipe to the sink and the toilet seat. You can never be too careful with germs in a bathroom, especially one as bad as this one.
I look over at the shower. A bar of soap has claimed the space by the drain, resting casually by the hair trap.
The hair trap is probably the most disgusting invention on the face of the earth, but it was placed there in desperation. I would rather clean out a malleable rubber strainer than stick my fingers down into the darkness of the drain.
A bottle of manly Old Spice shower gel sits where the bar of soap should be. I pick up the bar of soap, still wet, and put it beside the Old Spice bottle. I then notice the large bottle of Head and Shoulders shampoo laying by the back of the bathtub, and I pick it up and place it next to the bottle of ugly green Purell shampoo.
The mold in the corners of the tub has returned, with a vengeance. It's nearly time for my weekly love affair with Tilex. I realize that mold must enjoy me, and I sigh.
This is a man's bathroom.
But, resting neatly in the back corner of the tub, I spot a purple bottle of shampoo and conditioner and a bar of Dove soap, the light green kind. Beside it is an unmistakeable hot pink disposable razor, declaring to the world that it is feminine and that it is here to stay (at least until it's time to throw it away).
These three things are the only things that would let a stranger know that, indeed, a girl not only lived here but survived here.
(Barely.)
A room containing a bathtub or shower, a toilet, and a sink
A man's throne, his kingdom, his sanctuary. The danger zone for women.
The danger zone.
I could spend days in that bathroom, cleaning until I collapsed, and it would still look the same.
This is why I keep my feminine toiletries in my room:
Every morning there are wet towels on the floor, pushed under the sink and forgotten until they spill out into the walkway. The closet door is still open, and I notice that a fallen towel is preventing it from shutting. I pick up the towel, taking no time to study the contents of the shelves. I already know what's there: Old Spice aftershave, a beard trimmer, manly blue disposable razors, a pack of unused Irish Spring soap (in bars), band aids (strown about), a box full of gauze pads and cough syrups and ointments and whatnot. Icy Hot pads rest off to one side, in easy reach of anyone in aid.
Toothpaste has crusted to the top of the sink, making camp beside the hair that has been separated from it's owner by a beard trimmer. I scrub it away and put the towels in the hamper, where they belong.
The mirror above the sink has had something smeared across it. Not knowing the contents of such a smear, I pull out a used towel, wet it, and then scrub the mirror. After wiping it dry, I move away. I don't care to know what the medicine cabinet looks like. I know the jist: nail clippers, Tylenol, and additional get-better pills. It may by the cleanest part of the entire bathroom.
The toilet seat is up, naturally, and whoever peed last has forgotten to flush. Perhaps nobody flushed. In any case, the yellow combination of DNA has got to go. I flush it, put the seat down, and then take a Colorox wipe to the sink and the toilet seat. You can never be too careful with germs in a bathroom, especially one as bad as this one.
I look over at the shower. A bar of soap has claimed the space by the drain, resting casually by the hair trap.
The hair trap is probably the most disgusting invention on the face of the earth, but it was placed there in desperation. I would rather clean out a malleable rubber strainer than stick my fingers down into the darkness of the drain.
A bottle of manly Old Spice shower gel sits where the bar of soap should be. I pick up the bar of soap, still wet, and put it beside the Old Spice bottle. I then notice the large bottle of Head and Shoulders shampoo laying by the back of the bathtub, and I pick it up and place it next to the bottle of ugly green Purell shampoo.
The mold in the corners of the tub has returned, with a vengeance. It's nearly time for my weekly love affair with Tilex. I realize that mold must enjoy me, and I sigh.
This is a man's bathroom.
But, resting neatly in the back corner of the tub, I spot a purple bottle of shampoo and conditioner and a bar of Dove soap, the light green kind. Beside it is an unmistakeable hot pink disposable razor, declaring to the world that it is feminine and that it is here to stay (at least until it's time to throw it away).
These three things are the only things that would let a stranger know that, indeed, a girl not only lived here but survived here.
(Barely.)