Dear Puppies: Bathroom Time Trauma

Dear Reagan,

Sometimes when I have you out in the front yard waiting for what seems like hours of debating where you would like to do your business, I’m just in awe at how you can pop a squat anywhere, no matter who is watching, without a care in the world.  I wish I could do that.  Well, not me, but humanity.  Well, not really that either… Think of how disgusting that would be!  But still, I would probably not be on Prozac if I didn’t have all of the stresses that come along with going to the bathroom.

Think about it: before I knew better I didn’t think anything of it.  When I had to go I would just crawl to my special place under the kitchen table and fill my diaper.  When I had to pee a couple years later and my mom was taking too long to answer my cries of needing to go I just pulled my pants down right in the middle of Ken’s Pizza.

But that was before the proper rules of bathroom etiquette were conditioned into my mind, ruining the rest of my life:

Before, when I wouldn’t have been embarrassed for peeing my pants in first grade because my mother (that’s right; not mom, but mother. As in “Et tu, mother?”) decided it was time to start belting me into my pants.  Sure, I would have been upset that I would have to go through the rest of the school day in wet pants, but embarrassed?  No.

Before, when I wouldn’t have cared that my 2nd grade classmate didn’t seem to understand or care what the “occupied” sign on the lockless bathroom door meant, not once, but twice in one day.  Before, when he wouldn’t be labeled a pervert for the rest of his life by yours truly.

Before, when I wouldn’t have been so traumatized by this last event that I needed to block my bathroom door with a drawer just incase the lock gave way and a second barricade was needed.

Before, when I wouldn’t have needed my best friend to sing loudly in the public bathroom before lacrosse practice so she wouldn’t hear me pee.

Before, when I wouldn’t have cared that other people were in the stalls of my public dorm bathroom with me.  Before, when I wouldn’t have to wait till the premises had been vacated.  Before, when my traitorous friends couldn’t play a game called “Constipate Lauren” by running in a minute after me with the need to start up a conversation.

Before, when I wouldn’t have needed to lock the door to my apartment in a house shared with friends so that they wouldn’t accidentally come in and then open the door to my bathroom, that once again did not have a lock.

Before, when my senior year roommate couldn’t have traumatized me by scratching at my bathroom door in our apartment, shaking the knob as if she was about to come in because I, once again, did not have a lock.  Before, when she couldn’t then run around to the second door of my section of our Jack-and-Jill bathroom and threaten to enter that way as well.

Before, when a fly or mosquito being with me in the bathroom wouldn’t have seemed like a terrifying invasion of privacy and attack on my sacred space.

Before, when I wouldn’t have to deal with a dog who constantly scratches at the bathroom door because I have separated her from her precious drinking water.

Yeah, pooping outside without a care in the world must be wonderful.

Until next time,
Lauren H.
Follow @BewareOfTrees

  1. March 21st, 2015

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