The walk of shame - office version

I defy anyone to come up with a more nerve-wracking, anxiety-ridden walk than the 15 feet of granite tile between my office bathroom and the front desk, where the single bathroom key lives in its ornate glass bucket. As I walk this 15 feet of tile from my single-stall, coed, one-at-a-time shared office bathroom with no vent, back to the office to replace the key in its house, I can feel the heat from each individual light beating down upon me, and all eyes on me as coworkers perform the mental calculations to determine, based on the duration of my bathroom visit, exactly what I was doing in there.

We’ve all been there. Maybe the morning didn’t allow us to execute our proper routine in the comfort and relative safety of our own home. Maybe that one extra cup of coffee to get us through the client meeting at 9:30 is now taking its toll on the old constitution, exacting sweet revenge in a liquid state only slightly more pulpy than when it was consumed. Or maybe your routine IS the office, because there’s no way to make it through the day without taking the Wayans brothers to the porcelain hot tub party at least once (and for you, I feel truly sorry, because this anxiety inducing walk is nothing to laugh at, and is probably taking hours off your life with each trip).

The moment of truth, for me, comes when I round the corner from the elevator lobby into the actual office, where there is a significant possibility that someone will be standing patiently next to the key house, waiting for the current user to log out (wait for it). And the way my office is set up, every bathroom visit is a matter of public domain. You have to walk through the entire office to get to the front desk where the key lives, and once you’re there you’re in plain sight from every conceivable office vantage point, conference rooms included. From there, you must walk through a small elevator lobby approximately 15 feet to the bathroom, where a heavy creaky door will loudly signal your entrance and exit to all those who were too immersed in the daily grind to notice you getting up the first time – once the door slams, your cover is blown. Then, once you enter, the race is on to make haste with your waste so as not to provide a window for anyone to wonder what you’re up to in there. I estimate this window as lasting for approximately one minute, and being directly correlated with the length of time office workers can hold a thought about anything – after a minute has passed, most people will have forgotten you’re even in there. Thus, when you come out, the passing of time will feel much longer than if your being in the bathroom was vaguely in the back of their mind the entire time. So once you pass the one minute landmark, it’s safe to conclude that the entire office assumes you’re taking a huge dump.

Supposing that you actually are taking a huge dump, the anxiety on the walk from bathroom to office lobby is intensified by the power of a hundred. Whoever might be waiting patiently for the key will greet you with a smile, and you will reciprocate, then hand over said key and watch your coworker willingly march to a silent but violent bathroom session that even a warm seat won’t remedy. They will know what you did, and they will keep it quiet forever, because to speak of such an event would violate more office codes than I can count. But your coworker will remember, and he or she will exact sweet revenge in due course.

An added complication to this bathroom equation that I particularly enjoy is that PR happens to be a female dominated profession, meaning the chance that I hand the key over to an attractive female after TCBing the one-man stall is hovering somewhere in the neighborhood of 85%. Which means if I’m on the receiving end of the transaction, the chances are equally high that the bathroom has been destroyed by a chick. And I don’t know about you, but I prefer to live life with a blind eye turned to women and bathrooms. It’s hard to maintain this ignorance when accepting a key and a smile from the hot intern, then entering an area that should be roped off with yellow police tape and require gloves and a mask.

Even better is when the job’s not quite finished, and plunging is required. Not only does the next (wo)man up assume it’s your own task that’s being dealt with, but you’re now plunging the remnants of someone else’s business, and that someone else is, with 85% certainty, a chick. Perfect.

Anyway… I just made the trip is why it’s on my mind, and thankfully there was nobody waiting to receive a key. Happy Thurdsay, and thanks for reading.