(no subject)
sorely dissapointed by what i was expecting to be an amazing show on wednesday night, i retreated to the bathroom to relieve myself. upon exiting the stall, i was greeted by a rather sprightly bathroom attendant. while this was not the first time in my life i've seen a bathroom attendant, it doesn't happen very often. i think, though, that for the first time i was profoundly affected by such an occurrence.
no sooner had i flushed and unlocked the door, this woman enthusiastically turned the faucet on for me and armed herself with her soap dispenser, ready to offer me two swift pumps of dial antibacterial. i suppose this was bb king's (not the guy's, the nightclub's) cheap attempt at making me feel classy, but instead of classy, i didn't quite know what to feel. gratitude? should i really accept this woman's gesture graciously; for turning on the water and putting soap in my hands? something that i damn well ought to able to do for myself? does she even really care that much? is she trying to make a few bucks, or is she on a mission to eradicate the spread of infectious diseases? i tend to think the former rather than the latter. should i instead pity her, for having to make her living sitting in a shitter all night, her ears constantly bombarded by the sound of human waste hitting water, toilets flushing and music she didn't like, helping drunk people wash their filthy hands? should i disguise my pity as graciousness, feeling guilt-tripped enough into actually want to give her money for her service? no, i thought, and my indecision shifted to disbelief bordering on anger. is this woman actually trying to make a living by helping me wash my hands? to think that she truly believes her services are actually needed prompted me to feel nothing but insulted. and then im supposed to PAY you for this? her presence, i then realized, was not only insulting, but potentially vexing and embarrassing as well. suppose i just didn't want or need to wash my hands at all? what if i hadn't gone in that stall to pee or poop? what if i was just doing a line, or taking a shot from the water bottle full of booze in my purse, or scratching an intense crotch itch, or any of the other innumerable things people go into alcoves of solitude, some of the last sanctums of privacy left in the world, otherwise known as bathroom stalls, to do? i would emerge from my stall, contented with whatever i had just done, except now i had another obstacle to face: to wash or not to wash and NOT be the only person who knew it or not. maybe i just don't wash my hands after every time i go. maybe it dries out my hands too much. maybe i just didn't feel like it. maybe i was so absolutely sure i hadn't gotten my hands dirty. or maybe i preferred the fabulous invention of antibacterial hand gel, opposed to the arcane soap and water instead? despite all of these variables i'm sure the only conclusion the bathroom attendant would come to would be, 'bitch is DIRTY'. and to make such a bad impression is quite simply not my style.
so i relinquished. i washed my hands, i thanked her and smiled half-heartedly. only because it was the most appropriate thing to do and i was planning on washing my hands anyway. but i still took a freshly cleaned fist full of candy from her dish on my way out.
no sooner had i flushed and unlocked the door, this woman enthusiastically turned the faucet on for me and armed herself with her soap dispenser, ready to offer me two swift pumps of dial antibacterial. i suppose this was bb king's (not the guy's, the nightclub's) cheap attempt at making me feel classy, but instead of classy, i didn't quite know what to feel. gratitude? should i really accept this woman's gesture graciously; for turning on the water and putting soap in my hands? something that i damn well ought to able to do for myself? does she even really care that much? is she trying to make a few bucks, or is she on a mission to eradicate the spread of infectious diseases? i tend to think the former rather than the latter. should i instead pity her, for having to make her living sitting in a shitter all night, her ears constantly bombarded by the sound of human waste hitting water, toilets flushing and music she didn't like, helping drunk people wash their filthy hands? should i disguise my pity as graciousness, feeling guilt-tripped enough into actually want to give her money for her service? no, i thought, and my indecision shifted to disbelief bordering on anger. is this woman actually trying to make a living by helping me wash my hands? to think that she truly believes her services are actually needed prompted me to feel nothing but insulted. and then im supposed to PAY you for this? her presence, i then realized, was not only insulting, but potentially vexing and embarrassing as well. suppose i just didn't want or need to wash my hands at all? what if i hadn't gone in that stall to pee or poop? what if i was just doing a line, or taking a shot from the water bottle full of booze in my purse, or scratching an intense crotch itch, or any of the other innumerable things people go into alcoves of solitude, some of the last sanctums of privacy left in the world, otherwise known as bathroom stalls, to do? i would emerge from my stall, contented with whatever i had just done, except now i had another obstacle to face: to wash or not to wash and NOT be the only person who knew it or not. maybe i just don't wash my hands after every time i go. maybe it dries out my hands too much. maybe i just didn't feel like it. maybe i was so absolutely sure i hadn't gotten my hands dirty. or maybe i preferred the fabulous invention of antibacterial hand gel, opposed to the arcane soap and water instead? despite all of these variables i'm sure the only conclusion the bathroom attendant would come to would be, 'bitch is DIRTY'. and to make such a bad impression is quite simply not my style.
so i relinquished. i washed my hands, i thanked her and smiled half-heartedly. only because it was the most appropriate thing to do and i was planning on washing my hands anyway. but i still took a freshly cleaned fist full of candy from her dish on my way out.