Today I drove down to the conference center in Tifton, Georgia. The conference center is about 170 miles from my house. That means I spent seven hours in the car driving down and back. Thank God for books on CD.
Upon reaching my destination, I headed straight for the bathroom. Despite having stopped in Madison and again in Perry, my need was great. I’m sure it had nothing to do with the 20-0unce coffee I brought with me from home or the 32-ounce iced-tea I picked up in Madison.
A meeting of farmer types let out just as I entered the building. When I walked into the bathroom, half a dozen dudes in Wrangler jeans and square-toed boots stood before urinals relieving themselves. I wouldn’t normally share this kind of information, but most of them were also talking on cell phones.
Now I don’t know about you, but I am not a bathroom talker. Some guys see being lined up at urinals with other men as an opportunity for conversation. I’m not that kind of guy. When nature calls, I have no interest in conversing with anyone.
Some tasks require my complete and undivided attention. Talking is enough of a distraction to impede progress toward my goal. If you want to talk, stop by my office or catch me out in the hall.
Sure, on very rare occasions, when I’m at home I might slip into the bathroom to pee while talking on the phone. If so, I’m careful to make no noise and always hold my hand over the mouthpiece when I flush. The important thing is that the person on the other end of the line mustn’t know.
I know it’s different for women. For some reason they go to the bathroom in groups. I haven’t spent a lot of time in women’s bathrooms, but assume they holler back and forth from stall to stall all the time. A lot of women’s bathrooms even have couches, so you can make yourself comfortable for a longer chat.
Not me. Given the lack of ventilation, most the time I try not to even breathe, much less talk. That’s why I prefer the bathrooms here in…
My Glass House