Germaphobia - a lesson I had to learn the hard way

I never realized how much of a germaphobe I was until I was locked in a public restroom.  My hygiene habits aren’t spectacular.  I rinse my hands after I pee, I scrub my hands after I poop, and if you put your gross, scabby hands in my food I’ll stab you with my fork.  Although the rules are simple, I had to learn the hard way – not everyone abides by my rules. 

I was forced to do some serious self-evaluation the other day.  The situation was fairly normal.  I had to pee.  So, I did what all of you would do.  I found a public restroom.  I used my hip to push open the door.  I pranced around the obvious pee puddles, assumed a wide stance to avoid splash back, and did my business.

When I was done, I shook, zipped, stepped back, and karate kid-style kicked the flush lever.  I got a little careless with the kick, my form was a little sloppy, and when I went to put my foot back down, I almost slipped in the aforementioned pee puddle.  After some quick footwork and a moment of pure trepidation, I managed to stay on my feet.

WARNING:  If you’re ever using a ninja style kick to flush the toilet, be aware of the possibility of slippage.  There aren’t many things worse than losing your footing and going black hawk down in a public shitter.  I can only imagine standing up after a mistake like that.  Arms out like an autistic zombie.  Mouth pinched shut.  Eyes wide and fervent with terror.  The smell of warm asparagus and ammonia dripping down the backs of your legs.  To add insult to injury you’d have to make a life changing decision; walk out of there covered in a dozen other dude’s piss, or try to clean yourself using only the sink and that pink soap which smells like an old woman’s night clothes. 

It makes my stomach turn just thinking about it.  However, the slight chance of slipping is still not as bad as flushing with your bare hand like some type of third world prisoner.  And I haven’t fallen yet, so my kick technique will continue.

This is where I need you to step into my shoes.  Rewind the tape to when I walked into the restroom.  As I’m going in, another man is coming out of the stall.  He’s an older man and he’s the kind of heavy that slants the soles of your shoes to the outside.  We pass each other.  I’m minding my own business, but I’m also listening.  He slows down at the sink, there’s some heavy footed shuffling, and then the door opens – never heard the faucet.

At this point, I’m juggling a few things in my head.  Trying not to splash my pants, avoiding the piss-puddle, and trying to mouth-breath enough to survive the diabolical shit smell that was just unleashed by the chubby guy who doesn’t believe in washing his hands.  I don’t realize it yet, but the situation is turning toxic.

My near fall, and the atrocious smell of digested death, occupies most of my consciousness.  Instead of dwelling on the unsanitary asshole who didn’t wash his hands, I refocus.  I go to the sink and wash my hands, (up to the elbow on my left side because it brushed against the wall when I almost fell).  Then I turn and wave my hand at the paper towel dispenser.  It grunts at me, but no paper dispenses.  I wave again.  Another mechanical groan, but still no paper.  It’s empty.

A little adversity never hurt anyone.  Adapt and overcome, right?  I shake my hands and pat them dry on my pants.  Then I turn to the door.  Now, if this situation was occurring in a movie, this is where the camera would zoom in on of the worst door knobs in the history of mankind.  The background music would distort and you’d hear a reluctant exhale. 

The circumference of the door knob is coated 360 degrees with dry brown gunk that looks like something you’d find under a meth addict’s toenails.  Around the knob, there’s an array of stray smears and smudges as if a pack of toddlers was playing pin the tail on the donkey – but instead of tails, they decided to dip their hands in a meaty bowl of chili.

It wasn’t going to happen.  My hands were clean.  Karate kid kicks don’t work well with knobs.  I wasn’t willing to sacrifice my shirt, elbows, or any other orifice.  After one look at that knob, I didn’t even consider it.  I was trapped.

The only remaining option was toilet paper.  But to get to that, I’d have to expose myself to the radioactive stink cloud in the single stall.  Desperate and rattled, I suppressed my gag reflex and kicked the stall door open.  The scene inside the stall looked like a battle had taken place.  The floor was riddled with tissue shrapnel, empty boxes of toilet covers, and a little bit of poo, right there on the lip of the toilet seat.  Not a full log, just a little marble sized poo nugget, mocking me.  And on the wall, one dejected cardboard roll – not a single clean sheet of paper remaining.

I backed out of the stall, heartbroken and perplexed, like a kid who just walked in on his parents entangled in the infamous 69 position.  I’d exhausted my last option.  I was trapped in this hell hole.

I tried a few hail-mary kicks at the knob, but the door didn’t budge.  I spent the next five minutes pacing behind the door, contemplating my life, and listening for footsteps, hoping someone would enter the restroom so I could make my escape.  Eventually, my savior arrived.  I couldn’t tell you what he looked like because I didn’t even glance up.  As the next man walked through the door, I turned my shoulders and slipped out of the dungeon without so much as a nod.

I wouldn’t go as far as saying I have Mysophobia, which is the pathological fear of germs, but I must admit that my germophobia is more complex than the average person’s.  In retrospect, I learned a good lesson during my captivity; assume people don’t wash their hands, and always check for paper towels – first.