Why I use the broken toilet, Alternate Title: Another flipping post about the bathroom

I'm gonna go out on a limb here and admit that I occasionally might exhibit what could be considered slightly obsessive compulsive behavior. But I completely pick and choose what I'm going to be squeemish about. I could not shower for a week and shit in the woods every day and be totally fine with myself, but I feel the need to disinfect my countertops at least three a day. I've shared toothbrushes, razors, loofahs, and bathing suit bottoms, but I wash my hands every day more often than the cast of Jersey Shore throws up a fist pump on a Friday night. I've walked around with dog shit on my face, but sticky children disgust me.

There is one rule though that you certainly don't need to be a germaphobe to live by, and that is the public toilet seat rule: Don't you dare sit on that public cesspool of bacteria and broken dreams. But here's where that fine line of restroom common sense and desperation blend a little bit. Do you consider your work bathroom a public bathroom?

It's certainly not private. As much as I would love to put a giant sign outside the ladies room that says "For Bridget's Use Only. Trespassers will be shot." I don't see that going over so well with the rest of the office lady populace. But it's not quite public either. The crack addict who stands on the corner and wants to talk to me about Jesus can't come in to shit on the floor should the need arise.

Being as I've already publicly admitted to having no problem pooping at work, you could probably deduce -- or should I say deduece? -- that I'm a shitter sitter when it comes to the work toilets.

But I mean come on. These toilets get cleaned more often than I clean mine at home. Every morning the toilet seats are up and there is a bowl of fresh blue toilet water just waiting for me to use it. I have no issue here. And just by the shear amount of times I need to relieve myself every day counts for something. I pee all the time. I have to. I'm a runner. I hydrate myself to the point of near drowning every day. I spend far too much time in that bathroom to worry about squatting. This is no dive bar or beach bathroom. There is no vomit in the corner or soggy toilet paper or puddle of liquid of questionable origin on the floor.

But here's where my slight obsessive compulsive tendencies come shining through. I have to use the same bathroom stall every time. And I chose this stall very carefully. Whenever I enter a new bathroom, I choose my stall based on the one I think gets used least often. If it's a public bathroom, I always go left. Most people are right handed, so they naturally turn right when entering a public bathroom. Therefore, I go left. Problem solving skills for the win, ya'll.

In my office ladies room, the stalls are only on one side of the room, thereby making my decision a bit trickier. But when I was examining potential stalls to decide which would be my new bathroom home away from home, I knew I hit gold when I found the stall with the broken toilet seat. Here's my logic: Who wants to use a broken toilet seat when you have plenty of other not-broken toilets to choose from? No one, that's who! Only a moron would do that. A moron ... or a GENIUS.

It's not really broken, per se, it's just ... crooked. And you can't plop down with too much force or your butt might end up in the water. The screws are a bit loose and it slides a little whenever you sit. Anyone who makes the mistake of sitting on that seat is not going to choose that the next time they use the bathroom. Therefore, I probably use the stall that gets used least often throughout the day. My butt is definitely the butt that's on that seat the most. And I'm pretty sure in nature, that means it belongs to me. That's like the number one rule of the jungle.

I might even go so far to bet that I'm the only one who uses it. It's like my own semi-private bathroom stall. I might bring in a magazine rack and tape my beloved Jeff Goldblum is Watching You Poop poster to the door to make it feel a bit more like home.

Oh Jeff, you get me every time. Tweet