Loopy Loo

One of my best friends feels there’s some truth in the belief that our lives are driven by fear and embarrassment. There’s definitely some merit to this in my eyes too…

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It’s fair to say, I believe, that in the arena of waiting in the public toilets for a cubicle to become free, men differ greatly from women, although less so in Turkey than my country of birth New Zealand. For womenfolk it seems this is a sometimes frustrating, yet necessary, part of life. For the other species of humankind however, it falls under the category of “I’d rather not, thanks.”

Somehow it’s not ‘cool’ for the fellas to be seen loitering in the bathroom. There’s the off chance that someone might mistake you for being there for some reason other than nature’s calling.

And so there I was in my office, which just happens to be a café in a shopping mall, needing to relieve myself of excess energy supplies. To which end I abandoned my computer, bag and notes to make the fifty metre journey to the local facilities, knowing full well that ‘my’ staff, who just happen to be the waiters and waitresses of said café, would look after my belongings for me.

Once I made the mistake of actually asking them if they would kindly look after my things, to which they simply responded, “We’re here aren’t we?”. Thereby seeming to imply that whether they wanted to or not, they couldn’t help but do it.

Getting back to the main theme: I arrived at the WC to find the 4 ‘büyükler için’ (for big people) lavatories were occupied. Pressing the door to the ‘küçükler için’ one (smaller folk), even though the red sign indicated that it was in use, I happily found it to be empty.

Not fancying being ‘that guy’ that’s waiting for a free cubicle, I sauntered in and proceeded about my business. To get an idea of it’s ridiculously petite size you’ll need to appreciate that the height of the wee potty was decidedly below one’s knee. Thus even getting down there, for someone of my seniority (should I have said maturity?), required avid use of the walls for support.

Having plonked my delicate posterior on the potty I discovered to my dismay that it was worse that it looked at first glance. My little appendage belonging solely to the males of the species was sadly hanging over the edge due to the fact that not only was the height an issue, but indeed, so was the circumference.

Feeling that my need was greater than my will (to relocate) I convinced myself that a #1 wasn’t required and in this instance a #2 would suffice.

Taking enjoyment in the … (sometimes too much is too much).

As some other chaps of a gentile persuasion can attend, we aren’t always in full control of all that matters…

Suddenly the unbelievable happened.

Almost with an evil desire, the ‘little brain’ decided that in actual fact a #1 was on the cards (and why hadn’t you realised that in the first place?).

As quickly as humanly possible, following the supposedly minor accident, the valve was shut off. Quite convinced that it really was a mere sprinkling I was unpleasantly shocked to observe a ‘dark patch’ the size of my hand.

Of course the immediate – albeit internal - cry was “Damage control!”

Unfortunately no amount of patting with paper towels made any noticeable difference, and so I had to face the music and beat a weary path back to the ‘office’.

In an emergency being embarrassed in the presence of complete strangers can be managed knowing that in all likelihood you’ll never see them again.

On the other hand, when it comes to the ‘office staff’, the unimaginable loss of street-cred that might come with the revelation that one isn’t in full control of one’s organs…well!

Hence, prior to walking out into the mall with great trepidation, I attempted to do the best I could to visibly hide the ‘unmentionable’.

Pulling my shorts up as high as possible (imagine a reduction in the ability to breath) together with stretching my t-shirt as slow as possible, whilst not really achieving a lot, managed to minimise some of potentially irreparable embarrassment.

My brain had provided the following rescue scenario: cover up as much as possible, head out whilst avoiding eye contact, and sit in a chair for as long as possible in the hope that humid air would turn the dark patch into a lighter shade that hopefully would better resemble its original colour (ignoring the fact that the café was air conditioned).

Two hours later, without actually checking (although desperately wanting to), I paid, left, and using the only thing available, covered the whole she-bang with my red over-the-shoulder bag.

Needless to say the walk home wasn’t the most enjoyable I ever encountered.

Later, I pondered what others might have done: bought new clothes, called the wife, slept in the bathroom…?

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If you can’t laugh at yourself, what’s the point?