saint-louise's Diaryland Diary
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Addictions, restrooms, and how I have no excuse for being a complete fucking weirdo.
I am a creature of habit, it seems. I�ve returned to one of my old standbys, which has � in this latest phase � enabled me to visit some of the most exotic, disturbing, perplexing places I never knew existed in my own city. They are commonly known as Restrooms.
You may remember that at any given moment I can be seen in possession of a water bottle, which will range in size from �Goodness Me, I�m Feeling a Little Parched Today� to �Open Water: the Rehydration Years.�
I drink water when I�m in meetings, at my desk, wandering about at home, working out at the gym, driving in the car, and talking on the phone.
I have water to drink with my lunch and dinner. (I probably would for breakfast, too, if it weren�t for the fact that I�ve tried in the past to put down my coffee cup between the hours of 7:00 and 10:00 am, only to find it has reappeared in my hand two seconds later. It�s one of the Laws of Physics. Let�s not fight it, shall we?)
It�s gotten to the point where I wake in the middle of the night to find empty water bottles littered across my bed, my stomach and bladder bloated, and my daughter clinging to my lifeless hand, weeping, �Mommy, please don�t drink anymore!�
This beverage obsession has, of course, THE Side Effect. You know. Where everything is normalnormalnormal�and then suddenly (!) you are consumed with the overpowering urge to whine, squirm embarrassingly, and hiss to the nearest person, in a voice similar to that of a three-year-old, �I need to use the baaaaathroooooom. Nooooow!�
This is especially interesting when it happens to both the offspring and me at the same time. We�ll be in, say, a grocery store. And she will turn to me at just the right moment, her face the mask of panic that I wish I could express. Only I don�t. I really can�t. Someone has to remain calm, and I am the adult (as laughable as that sometimes sounds). Without my fa�ade of serenity � knowing the genetics in my family � we�d end up bolting through the store, knocking over grocery carts and product displays, while in a tone of ever-increasing pitch and volume she�d repeat, �I.can�t.wait.I.have.to.go.right.now!�
To which my wild-eyed response would be, �Okay, then. Go now. Right where you are. OH, WAIT. I SEE A BATHROOM. NO, GET OUT OF MY WAY. I�M FIRST!�
It would all end in tears, I promise you.
She has an excuse, though. Being a small child and all. They are prone to waiting until the very last minute to attend to basic bodily functions.
I, at thirty years of age, have no way to explain myself other than this: I am addicted to water. I�m punishing myself for some prior, repressed wrongdoing. I�m under mind-control in some diabolical, teetotaling scientist�s study of overindulgence. I am attempting to improve myself, and if I don�t succeed I�ll at least have enough water to drown myself in. I have lost my fucking mind.
There.
But, as I said before, I do get to visit many a restroom. I haven�t yet found the words to describe the interminable pleasure this provides me. My favorites, of course, are the Unusable Restrooms: Restrooms with five stalls with broken door latches, and one stall that is already occupied. Restrooms that haven�t been cleaned since they were built, sometime during Eisenhower�s first term. Restrooms that are closed for repairs.
Those kinds of restrooms reduce me to a very primitive, very eloquently and prolifically profane version of myself.
Sometimes I�m so proud of how far I�ve come in life, I could just shake my tiny fists and squeal.
In other news, I�ll be visiting the Windy City in two weeks. This will be my first time in Chicago, if you don�t count the several times I�ve been trapped at O�Hare en route to Boston or New York. If you do count those times, to you my life must be the thrill-ride I�ve always hoped it would be.
Thanks for making all my dreams come true.
3:56 p.m. - 2004-08-13
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