Why is everything in a bathroom white? Why not black or navy blue? That way
when you have to use someone else’s bathroom you won’t be so incredibly grossed
out that you debate holding in your pee just to go back to the party, converse
for five minutes before you excuse yourself, and go outside to pee on a bush.
You know
your bathroom is a filth bucket when your peers would rather take a chance
pissing on unknown shrubbery than in your toilet. Because you guys only wash
your bathroom when the scent of mildew overpowers that of the shampoo.
"It doesn’t sound like a good idea, mixing booze and hot
curling wands together, but we somehow manage to pull it off."
In an
apartment full of women, I promise you there will be serious drain
clogs. We shed more than sheep dogs—every single one of us. We shave
more on our bodies than you guys so it’s only a matter of time
before our drains start spitting up our own discarded hair back at
us. The super in our apartment is so annoyed with our room, he’s had
to pull out three hairballs the size of a baby’s head from our
bathroom sink since we moved in. And what’s sicker than that is
we’re all pretty sure he kept them.
Both of my roommates have never lived with anyone before. I know that the
first year takes some adjusting, but I am pretty sure that neither one of them
has ever changed a roll of toilet paper in their life. I can’t tell you the
number of times I’ve sat down to tinkle, only to realize that there was no TP
available and had to waddle across the bathroom to get a roll. At first I just
asked them kindly to change it. Then, when it happened the fifth time, I started
using my loud angry voice. After the fifteenth time (seriously), I just waited
for them to walk through the door and started pelting toilet paper rolls at
their heads until one of them changed it.
That’s the worst chore, having to fetch toilet paper with your pants wrapped
around your ankles, trying not to let even a drop of pee hit your underwear.
It’s even worse when you think you’re done peeing, but then a little extra hits
your leg and starts to
travel down your thigh, so it becomes a race between you and your own urine
to see who gets to the toilet paper/pant leg first.
Three girls to one bathtub/shower equals one big hairy mess. Until now I
always thought that girls used the same razor for all their body parts. But if
you look in our shower at this very moment you will find a plethora of razors.
Some with the soap attached, some disposable pink ones, a Mach Three Turbo, and
a really sharp one with a handle like red gummy candy. Are we running a cocaine
ring? What’s the point of all these razors? Apparently, the disposable one is
for the underarms, the Mach is for the legs, the gummy candy is for the crotch,
and the soap-attached one is for leisurely days when the body needs a
moisturizing treat. Listen, shaving is not an art form and
your body is not a canvas—pick one razor and be done. I’m always scared I’m
going to step on one when I enter the shower in a groggy morning haze.
I can’t imagine what it’s like for you guys shaving your face every other
day. I imagine it’s about the same kind of material that us ladies have going on
in our nether regions, only it’s coming out of your face. Ever cut yourself with
a razor? It’s pretty painful, but you just can’t ever manage to stop wanting to
see the wound bleed out a little. There you guys are shaving your face when you
knick yourself. You flinch, but then discover, “Hey it kind of looks like I’m in
a horror movie.” And even though it’s gross and completely unsanitary, you stay
there in front of the mirror acting out scenes from Shaun of the Dead.
Twenty minutes later you realize you’re incredibly late for class over a small
cut.
Ladies, on the other hand, when we cut themselves shaving we have to call for
reinforcements—usually the toilet paper. Our cuts never stop bleeding. You could
sit on the toilet applying pressure for two hours, only to finally remove it and
discover that not only has the wound not stopped spilling blood, but
you’re naked and surrounded by three hundred pieces of
bloody toilet paper.
And women always knick themselves on the worst part of their leg to put a
Band-Aid. It’s always some place that a Band-Aid can’t stick, like behind the
knee or right above it, around the ankle or just below it. Then every time you
move your leg it starts to bleed again, so you end up wrapping gauze around it
with clear medical tape and throwing on black pants in 90 degree heat (in case
there’s a bleed through).
Girls will do anything in the bathroom when they’re getting ready. Pre-gaming
and fixing our hair at the same time? No problem. Sure, it doesn’t sound like a
good idea, mixing booze and hot curling wands together, but we somehow manage to
pull it off. Which is funny because we’ll always stumble out the door and yet
never seriously burn ourselves.
Curling iron burns are an absolute nightmare. They hurt annoyingly for an
hour, but mostly because they end up looking like
hickey marks on your neck. It turns out to be the mother of all social
wounds because everyone asks who gave it to you. Then you have to insist to your
boyfriend that you gave it to yourself, and you men never seem convinced that a
curling iron can do that. Other girls look at you like you’re in 8th
grade while you’re reapplying foundation to it in the bathroom to cover it up.
And you only burn yourself sober, never when you have a vodka lemonade in your
free hand. So my question is, why can’t that free hand ever manage to change the
toilet paper roll when it’s empty?
