Look, I’m no athlete, but I can do squats.
Like, I can really do squats. And I can sustain them, too.
I can’t just wave off your skepticism because who would believe it by just looking at me? My thighs aren’t exactly toned, my calves are a little stringy looking (and not in that sinewy, lean muscled, I-run-seven-miles-a-day type of way) in that… ‘hmm, she probably eats a lot of… vegetables’ type of way, and I have absolutely no booty to speak of. And we won’t even talk about the lack of six pack I’m sporting because who’s really thinking about anything but that lower half when it comes to squats, right?
I am clearly the picture of model health and athleticism.
But let me tell you, I can really do squats.
And the truth of the matter is, probably every girl you know can really do squats. They just didn’t know that they should be claiming this outstanding athletic ability of theirs.
When it comes to public restrooms, girls only have one rule, and no, it is not “bring a friend”.
Do not touch.
Do not graze, do not skim, do not lean—none of it. Do not touch. We girls will do everything in our power not to touch the toilet or, quite frankly, anything else in the bathroom. Paper towels suddenly live a duel life where they’re not just for drying dripping hands, but wondrous personal barriers from faucets and doorknobs. Uhm, yeah, we’re talking condom-level protection here.
We just don’t touch.
Much like this pug, whose balance game is on point.
And I know that someone’s going to want to intervene with, “But think about our modern, twenty-first century conveniences! There are toilet seat covers for a reason!” I’m not dismissing the considerate sanitary concept, but I’m also not fully trusting it. Those things are thinner than my patience with a newbie customer ordering at Starbucks. (Really thin.)
We walk into that stall, drop our pants and drawers, position ourselves in that familiar ready-position, and direct our streams into the porcelain apparatus below. Who knows who or what has been there before us?
Now, anyone with a bladder knows not all streams are one in the same, and as an avid coffee drinker, I’m telling you coffee-pees are the worst pees. Some streams just never end. Some streams are sporadic, you know, a kind on-and-off game just to keep you guessing. Some streams start as a little trickle but you know that you had to pee so bad but the trickle just won’t flow; and before you know it, your thighs have caught fire and you’re begging your body for the rest to just flood out before you collapse due to your quivering muscles. Some streams are like that.
But you persevere.
Or you learn how to control your stream and take a little standing pause because this is an acceptable alternative.
But you don’t touch. You never touch.
And just save the shit for when you get home. That’s a balancing act I don’t recommend trying.