Here is a sample of the kind of thing that goes through my head when I take my son to work before the sun comes up and I’ve yet to have coffee. Don’t judge me. I know I’m not the only one out there who’s mind is set on a rapid fire channel surf as soon as it realizes your body is waking up. Besides, if you think this odd, you should hear what it’s like after coffee.
I don’t understand why the partitions between urinals and stalls in the men’s room do not extend all the way to the floor. And why is it called a stall? Stall as in where you keep livestock? Maybe that’s why I’ve heard it said that I need to close the barn door before my donkey gets out, referencing a failure on my part to completely close the front of my pants. It’s not a far stretch to from the word “donkey” to the word “dinky”, which is what my parents called “boy parts” when we were kids (We couldn’t even have the cereal “Dinky Donuts” because of this). Then again, it could have been a simple reference to mass or lack thereof. It’s incredibly unfair when you think about it. Toddler’s heads always seem too large for their bodies. More than once I found myself wondering if I was raising a dwarf and really hoped that my daughter would grow into her huge head. I’m seriously not being insensitive here. It was a thought I legitimately had on several occasions. Still, it’s better than microcephaly I suppose. The point is that my toddler head was overly large. Especially compared to my toddler tally whacker.
More often than not nature corrects itself and our bodies become proportionate but we inflict discomforts upon ourselves as a species. Ineffective urinal partitions are one of these self-inflicted discomforts. Wouldn’t it be better to have a partition that started at waist level or lower and ended at the floor? If I am forced to use a public restroom I’m not really expecting the comfort and privacy afforded me by my home latrine. In all honesty, I could not possibly care less if someone happened to see my jiggly bits. A greater injustice than this biologically induced body image problem is that I can’t wear flip flops in public because of these ridiculous partitions. It leads to things like spousal mockery when one douses their feet in hand sanitizer after having been in a public restroom. The truck stop didn’t sell foot sanitizer and according to the lady behind the counter, there is no such thing as foot sanitizer. Odd, I know. Accusations of OCD or hypochondria from your wife aren’t terribly helpful when she is fully aware of your compromised podiatric immune system. I wouldn’t have this problem if you hadn’t convinced me to have my feet mangled in a failed attempt at pleasure and relaxation in an unsanitary environment. Seriously, it’s like you’re a foot masochist.