Skip to your loo, my darlin'
Who waxes poetic about a bathroom? Especially when there’s no double marble vanity, oversize soaking tub or rainfall shower system, let alone enough floor space for dance pro Valentin Chmerkovskiy to teach the samba while Roomba vacuums the rest of the expanse? No, I’m talking basic here as I wistfully recall the small bathroom of my youth.
It’s hard to believe that for most of my childhood there was a single bathroom in a house containing nine people. You do the math. It was the most coveted real estate going. And, since possession is nine-tenths of the law, whoever was left outside was up an infamous creek, as my mother would say.
In direct contrast to the spa-like bathrooms touted on every home improvement show, our bathroom was an assault to the senses. Someone decided wall-to-wall carpet was a good idea. In a bathroom! Probably a decision best blamed on my father who also rugged his bald head. Indeed, toupees and shag were the trends of the times. Unfortunately, the carpet theme continued on the toilet itself. Never a good idea. Nothing says bad hygiene better than a furry toilet.
Eventually our tub/shower combo was upgraded with frosted-glass sliding doors. You remember the kind, perpetually misaligned with rusty, gunky tracks that eventually became mold farms. This questionable renovation likely happened at the same time as the carpet installation since it provided the exact same level of style and cleanliness, i.e. none.
Slivers of bars of soap lingered on the tub edge. Your choice of brand, Ivory Soap or Irish Springs, depending on whether you wanted to feel “99 44/100% pure” or “ fresh and clean as a whistle.” In the corner, an empty bottle of Jean Nate After Bath Splash was wedged next to the box of Calgon just waiting to take someone away.
The back of the toilet featured a crocheted doll with a roll of toilet paper under her skirt. Why? I never could fathom. It sat next to an ashtray, another relic of its time, when puffs and poos were de rigueur, along with a Renuzit gel air freshener in lemon-sunshine. I remember reading the logo, “Renuzi Dooz-it,” taking a deep breath, and thinking, “Dooz-it, really?”
By now, you might be wondering where is the aforementioned waxing poetic about my childhood bathroom? And while the above violations to design sense and sanitation are true, what’s also true is that it was perfection: the only room in the house with a lock. Ah, a locked door. Inside, it was one’s own domain. Quietude. Peace. Privacy. To this day, where do most people go to find it?
Of course, we go to the bathroom for the obvious reasons, but there are a host of others that this one locked door can provide wherever you are. We fix our hair or our tie. We practice our presentation, our speech, our interview or audition. We cry. We do crosswords. We get out of doing the dishes. We read. We check social media. We think about what to say. We hide out of embarrassment, fear, or discovery. We play Candy Crush, Wordscapes or Super Mario. We tell our secrets to a mirror. We sing. We reevaluate our very lives. We scroll, text, and post. We have a single, solitary moment alone. For respite, for peace of mind, for ourselves.
Whether at work, at home, or out and about - sometimes we all need a minute or 15. And where better to find it than in a bathroom? Be it a stall or even your own luxury loo, long live this escape hatch from our ever-busier lives.
IN MUSING by Carole Vasta Folley
has won awards from
The Vermont Press Association,
The New England Newspaper & Press Association,
and the National Society of Newspaper Columnists.