1115.org

The “why I’m glad I never learned how to squat pee” Edition

There is a story in my family that goes something like this:
We are at a fancy restaurant having dinner with the whole family and I ask to be taken to the bathroom. Upon returning to the table, I announce to the entire restaurant in my biggest outside voice: “I went tinkle and my mommy washed her hands.”

When told in certain company (mostly those who can remember me as an adorable if not slightly LOUD six year old) this is an uproariously funny story, but for me, this story is a telling reminder of what was not happening in those trips I took to the bathroom with my mother. I was NOT learning to squat pee.

These are the reasons I’m glad I was taught to line the seat with toilet paper rather than squatting above the crapper like some savage:

1. Unless you are a complete idiot (Mary Tyler Moore?) it is impossible to get into a “can you spare a square? dilemma if you first line the seat with toilet paper. Logically speaking, if you have to asses the toilet paper situation before you pee you can’t be left dripping.

2. I’m sorry, it’s just more relaxing. Granted I’d probably have nicer quads if I squatted 3 or more times a day (what? how often do YOU use the bathroom at work?!) but I don’t think I’d feel as relieved after emptying my bladder that way. and don’t even get me started on #2 and the squat. I don’t get it. I’ve read articles (yes, I do research for these pieces) that say men in countries where squatting over holes in the ground is the preferred pooping position have a lower risk of prostate cancer, but luckily, I don’t have a prostate (do I?).

3. Squatting, I know from my yoga classes, takes a fair amount of balance. It is my college bar-tested and rave-approved theory that bathrooms you really have to be worried about are the bathrooms you are in when you have no balance to spare. This is, by far, the reason I am happiest to be a seat-liner. During my illustrious college career I was never able to figure out how to drop trou without getting my cuffs wet in a nasty bathroom I am happy to say I contracted not a single communicable disease, not even in the raves of Baltimore or SouthEast DC.

Now seat-lining is not without it’s own hazards. Another favorite family story goes something like this:
I was a freshman in high school and I was at the mall with my parents on a Friday night (laugh all you want, I’m from Pittsburgh for god’s sake!) and after dinner at one of the nicer mall restaurants my parent’s gave me an hour or so to go off with some of my friends. Upon returning to the designated meeting spot my parents couldn’t contain their loud guffaws. Apparently there was some seat-lining toilet paper hanging out of my jean skirt. Believe me, this never, ever happened again.

But there are some bathroom mishaps that cannot be avoided be yee a squat pee-er or a seat-liner.

My junior year of college my roommate and I were Sunday night regulars at a bar where a sweet boy named Shane played guitar and sang Police songs with lisp. We took turns drinking while the other drove, though it was not uncommon for both of us to get wasted and call campus for someone to pick us up. One night, when I was stone sober, peeing on a carefully lined seat, I heard a commotion in the bathroom outside my stall. I determined it was my very drunk roommate looking for me, but before I could finish up and deal with her, I heard a very loud crash. I opened my stall door to see her, splayed out on the floor with the door from the stall next to me on top of her. At that very moment, our waitress, who knew us both by name, walked into the bathroom. She smiled, inexplicably, and said “I think you two should leave right now. I’ll see you next week; use the back door.” We obliged, and returned the next week. The bathroom seemed no worse for the wear, though I have often wondered what would have happened had my roommate guessed correctly which door I was behind and god-forbid if I would have been balancing at the time.