Bluffton Today column
January 19, 2011
I had to use the handicap bar in the bathroom at work last week. I couldn’t get up without it. No traumatic injury here. Rather, I just started a “boot camp” fitness program. And, I am exhausted.
Since launching this New Year’s torture (I mean, endeavor), I have been walking on rubbery legs, writing with quivering implements, and sipping shaking coffee cups. I am sore to the core, literally. Ten days ago I didn’t even know what my core was. Now I spend an hour each morning channeling that inner strength in an effort not to look like a total idiot. Who knew that avoiding idiocy was so dang difficult?
I thought I was in shape. I mean, I’ve been walking (with an occasional jog thrown in for good measure) three to four miles a day, for three years. So, of course, when I completed my intake form, I ranked myself a seven – of ten – in terms of my fitness level. Turns out, I am actually looking at something more in the two to three range.
When I couldn’t ascend the stairs at work last week, I knew I was in trouble. But, I still got my aching body out of bed every morning, in the five o’clock hour, to tackle the challenge while chanting: I will not give up.
Ha! Easier said than done. I almost gave up this weekend, while on a quick getaway to New York City.
If you are from the north, or if you’ve traveled north, I suspect you will concur that Newark Airport and Penn Station are two hotbeds of germs, grime, and everything gross. And both top my list of places I never want to be stuck in, for more than hour, for fear of having to use the facilities. Unfortunately, because my new workout regime requires that I drink half my body weight in water (you do the math) – every day - I can now be found in the bathroom 200% more than I ever was (see handicap bar entry above). Which means I had to break “Courtney Rule Numero Uno” and use a public restroom. More than once. Oh, the horror!
So, our flight lands at Newark Airport and I have now been “holding” my grande non-fat mocha for about three hours – because there is no way I am going to use the restroom on the plane. So, here I am in miniscule bathroom stall, with my luggage. Now, typically I would rely on my leg muscles to hold me slightly airborne so that I didn’t have to touch the seat. But, as you have read, my muscles were mush, so the question became … where to put my tush?
And this leads me to the real problem -- women who pee all over the toilet seat. This is a phenomenon that has stymied me for years. It happens everywhere. At the local bar. The local college. The library. The dentist’s office. Your favorite restaurant. Your office.
What is it so difficult to hit your target? It’s a pretty big target for crying out loud.
I’m going to give you the benefit of the doubt and assume that you too are participating in an intense exercise experience and a little shaky on the hind legs. Ok, so you dribble a little. Now here’s a crazy thought – look to your right. Do you see that roll of white paper hanging on the wall? You do? Good. Now pull that piece of paper – that’s it – pull a few squares. Now use them to wipe the seat. Good work, champ.
Was that so hard? Think of the good deed that you have done. Women everywhere will silently thank you as they shuffle into that restroom, check for feet under the stall doors, push the door back with caution, learn that the latch is broken, balance on shaking legs, stand in a puddle of a lord knows what, while trying to hold the stall door closed with their finger tips, and simultaneously finish their business as quickly as possible.
This isn’t rocket science ladies (and men, it would hurt for y’all to follow suit) – if you sprinkle, when you tinkle, be a sweetie and wipe the seatie. Case closed.
March Writing Assignment
11 years ago