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