On a typical day, I exit the office after a short conversation with my friend and co-worker, Beth. It generally goes something like this:
Me: I feel like beating my head against the window.
Beth: Oooohhh…that’s the best idea I’ve heard all day.
Don’t misunderstand: we both love what we do.
Last night our conversation drifted to evening plans. She was going to relax and I…well…I’d be re-attaching my bathroom door.
The “How” behind the state of the door is a blog post for another time. For now, it’s enough to reference the mushroom crop that grew out of the frame a year ago.
I live by myself…so you might think the necessity of a bathroom door would fall low on the list of necessities. Let me give you a hint: Not so much.
I don’t know if it’s a girl thing. Or a southern thing. Or a southern girl thing. But it’s definitely a thing. And it’s a sentiment men don’t seem to share. Privacy, what’s that?
I’ve decided there must be a rule in the man handbook that says “If a woman is in the bathroom for more than sixty seconds, you must go and check on her.” How else do you explain the transformation from mute couch potato to chatty Cathy once the door is closed?
Beth, who has recently settled into a life of matrimonial bliss, agrees with my assessment on this. Her husband sees the closed door as an open invitation to discuss profound world events–like the hairball the cat coughed up and his desire to eat a ham sandwich for lunch.
Perhaps it’s one of those things we weren’t meant to understand? You tell me…but let me close the door first.