Turns out, to the surprise of no one, that I possess no talent for engineering or interior design. Anything that requires even a smidge of spacial intelligence is beyond my ken. Nevertheless, I keep trying. I repeatedly return to an innovative re-evaluation of the customary public restroom blueprint only to run into the fatal flaw, again and again.
My tendency to enjoy conversation does not pause upon the threshold of a public restroom. It is my private shame. Several years ago, while returning from a mission trip, I was chatting it up with my bathroom buddy, Evelyn, when I had a revelation. "Evie," I yelled, "I have an idea!" "I'm right next to you, Mrs. Mosiman," Evie muttered, not wanting to linger in this particular area longer than necessary. I used the bottom of my fist to pound on the narrow wall between us. "Check it out, Evie," I continued, not interrupting the flow of conversation. "Imagine if the separation walls were cut in half. Tall enough to provide privacy but low enough to communicate face-to-face." I paused to allow her to digest this information. Turns out Evie didn't have as much to say on the subject as Sydney did when I re-visited my plan recently. "What a crappy idea, Mom," she said with disgust after trying to ignore my incessant pounding during our visit to a Niagara Falls restroom facility.
That was unnecessarily harsh considering that I realize that my plan doesn't hold water each time my restroom visit reaches its inevitable end. When I am forced to stand and face the music, so to speak, I see that my envisioned face-to-face conversation gives new meaning to cheek-to-cheek. Apparently, there are no comrades in the commode. Each is a queen upon her throne with no need to hold court. But I still think the jury's out on this one.
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