Some of my most authentic human interactions have transpired in public restrooms.
You know the type: It’s late at night, you’re tipsy, someone is crying. There was an evil male, a shrill friend, a sketchy transgression. The night didn’t go as planned.
“Are you okaaaaaayyy?” someone ventures. There is a look of recognition. And in that late, slightly blurry moment, all pretenses are dropped and a connection is made. You are united. United by long bathroom lines, united by your mutual love of Tampax Pearl, united by whatever Beyoncé song is blaring outside the door.
It’s been a long time since I’ve had one of these experiences, namely because my thirty-year-old life is way less exciting than my twenty-three-year-old one. But I’ve been reminded of those feelings a lot lately, when friends (old, new and virtual) have reached out with words of comfort and support.
I love hearing from you. I love your stories and your advice. You know what? I love you. (That’s the beauty of bathroom politics—you can just come right out and say things.) To bring this weird metaphor full circle, you’ve helped me feel better about marching back into the proverbial dive bar that is life.
Thank you, guys. So very much. I only hope I can return the favor.
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