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high as the times you’re in

April 11, 2013

Every afternoon the bathrooms on our floor are locked. The boys and I come storming back into the office for the bathroom door keys, and gripe and grumble and cuss and complain, and Joe has gone so far as to call the management about it, but every day it happens.

One explanation is that the cleaning lady locks the doors of each bathroom after she cleans them, which: fine. I still feel that this is way too paranoid for a large office building, regardless of all the big bad riff raff roaming the desperate streets of inner SE Portland, I mean, I suppose if I were a murderous hobo I might not mind riding the elevator up eight floors to pee and a locked bathroom door would probably in no way enrage me into a previously unplanned floorwide killing spree, but come on. I appreciate the office building’s concern for my bathroom safety, but I think that the office building has not taken into account all of the ill advised outdoor peeing I have done in my lifetime. Call me crazy but I would rather deal with the possibility of the unexpected entrance of a murderous hobo with a full bladder while peeing than have to go (all the way) back to the office for my bathroom key every afternoon. I suppose I could just take the key with me every time, but that is folly.

However, sometimes the bathroom is locked before the cleaning lady does her rounds, and this has always confounded me. Furthermore, it has always pissed me off far more quickly because there is no sort of logic, however disparate from my own, attached to this random locking. Today I went to pee, and the bathroom door was locked again before cleaning time. I hissed a great big sigh of annoyance and went back for my key, and when I returned an old lady was slipping out of the bathroom. She looked at me with evident guilt, and as I entered a bathroom ripe with the lingering essence of a freshly dropped deuce I suddenly understood. It would certainly never enter my head to lock the door to the entire bathroom for a private personal dump, but then, perhaps when I am an old lady and the traffic does not flow as smoothly along the old intestinal highway, I will feel differently.

I have a distinct craving to hunt her down and high five her, for her ingenuity and her brashness, in taking what she wants and getting away with it.

Old lady dumps for the win.

I am

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