SOMETHING SMELLS ROTTEN
DEAR IRISH GRANNY,
What is the correct social protocol when you walk into a public restroom that has a …. lingering aroma…. you rush through your business, in aromatic distress, and while you are drying your hands, a new victim enters?
I panic when this happens, fearful that the person assumes I am the source of the…. problem.
Other than crawling out on my belly, what can I do?
In disgrace,
BLAMELESS IN THE BATHROOM
DEAR BLAMELESS,
I admit this is a first, but I’m not complaining.
Your question is a welcome relief from the many real and serious problems I hear every day.
My initial impulse was to just move on, but after giving this a bit more thought, I wondered if your sensitivity could be an unexpected consequence of our forced isolation during the pandemic.
Maybe we have lost a certain level of comfort with the proximity to the other smelly, hairy, annoying mammals with whom we people the planet.
We grew used to separation from unfamiliar members of our species. At least those of us not living in cramped quarters with others did.
A caveat: Any parent of small children quickly learns to cherish “bathroom alone time”. How common the little voice from the mouth pressed against the bottom of the door. How inevitable the query, “Mom, (or Dad), what are you doing?”, EVERY single time your rear end touches the porcelain.
I am digressing, which is my wont, due to the PTSD of never having had a solitary moment after the birth of my daughters, suffering almost twenty-five years of uninvited company in what was literally The Little Girls’ Room.
Nary a day goes by even now, that my youngest is 30, that I don’t thank god for my unaccompanied state, at long last no explanation required for my trip to the john.
Perhaps I am being too eager to blame the pandemic for everything.
Maybe this has deeper roots.
Your dilemma might be the inevitable delicacy wrought by our sanitized, sterilized, disinfected culture.
The advertisements drive it home: we are a stained, stinking, nasty sort.
Never fear: Johnson and Johnson, SELSUN, Procter and Gamble, 3D WHITESTRIPS, NAIR, LUME, and DOVE and OLD SPICE have the solution.
Between the dandruff, rashes, unsightly blemishes, yellowed teeth, tics, leaks and odors of all sorts from all parts, it’s a wonder the planet is overpopulated.
How can we stand to be next to us?
This latter-day squeamishness wasn’t always thus.
Other times and places were more realistic, open or dismissive of bodily functions.
The Romans had public, communal latrines. Stone benches along the side of the road, little holes all in a row, the better for chatting while…. multitasking.
The same social-not-so distancing went on in Turkey
I’m sure the royal sensibilities of Charles and Camilla and that whole bunch would be horrified to know that their Tudor predecessors shared similar common facilities, in The Great House of Easement.
In the earlier Middle Ages, the elite who resided in castles made use of the garderobe, small stone rooms with a wooden seat, whose hole dropped waste down to the exterior of the castle wall, or, sometimes, into a pit. In either case, it became some other poor soul’s problem….and livelihood… to empty.
These unfortunate professionals were called gong farmers.
Hmmmm, begs the question: Were the producers of the GONG SHOW students of medieval history?
The commoners just popped a squat wherever convenient.
If one lived in the city, one had to be alert for the cry of “gardyloo”, as the contents of chamber pots were pitched out of second story windows.
The French king held court while doing his other business in Versailles. In a regular, (we hope), morning routine, (the lever), Louis attended to his royal duties.
I’ll refrain from the pun begging to be made here.
And at banquet in the Great Hall, with every lord and lady perfumed and bewigged to a fare-thee-well, Louis might repair to his Royal Commode, a little chintz and damask covered one seater RIGHT BEHIND HIS PLACE AT THE TABLE.
It was routine for him to avail himself of the lavatory, (not that there was any handwashing going on), frequently, throughout the meal.
The nobles considered it a great privilege to attend the king. The entire assembly watched le Grande Couvert.
And no one ever had to ask HIM what he was doing.
Even les sujets in the far reaches of the hall were aware of l’odeur royale.
Louis XIV was renowned for his typical dinner of four bowls of soup, a whole pheasant, a partridge, ham, mutton, pastry, fruit, and hard-boiled eggs.
Proximity was everything.
Hence the euphemism The Throne, in reference to the chair anyone may assume, pauper to king. (Although there is only one of which I am aware that is really gold, at the moment.)
This little dissertation on the toilet habits of the rich and feckless is by way of illustrating that throughout the course of human history, we have not always been so fastidious about our bodily functions.
Which leads to my advice, such as it is.
Even though I think we can all relate to your concern, ask yourself this:
When the toilets have been turned and you have been the latecomer who does not know whom to blame for the lasting fragrance, do you recall anything about the other people in the restroom, later?
Have you ever awakened at 3 A.M. wondering about the identity of such a noisome perpetrator?
Could you pick any one of them out of a lineup?
My strategy would be to turn around and leave immediately at your first whiff. Find another place to go.
If you really experience unbearable trauma on these occasions, perhaps carry a small bottle of air freshener in your bag.
Console yourself with the knowledge that you will never see these people again, so who cares?
Unless this is a work-related offense, in which case you may find yourself falsely accused of your supervisors’ olfactory indiscretions, proving, by the way, that even the top of the hierarchy cannot claim that their you know what doesn’t you know what.
You will have to look THEM in the eye again, but at least you won’t have to revisit the offense in plain view while you’re eating in the employee lunchroom.
VIVE LE ROI.
YOUR IRISH GRANNY*
*This was a legitimate letter from a reader.
My apologies for any offended sensibilities
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