Wax on. Wax off.
I was washing up in the restroom here at work a little while ago, and just as I was done rinsing, another guy came over to the second sink to "wash up". In a perfect world, this wouldn't be a problem; I'd be able to cruise over to the paper towel dispenser and dry my hands at a nice easy pace and be on my way. But, like most human beings I run into these days, this guy is a splash & dash washer, and he was done in a half a second, and already hustling his way to the paper towels just as I was grabbing a sheet. I don't know why this bugs me, but the dispenser is over in a corner, and now I have to either contort myself out of the way while mumbling "pard'n me" or something, so he can grab a sheet, or else I gotta hurry up with the dryoff and get the heck out of the way. Why can't people just use soap when they wash, and thus bring balance to my universe?
I got back in the office and started griping about it to Jo, another one of my cubicle neighbors. (Aren't you glad you don't work with me and have to listen to my constant complaining? Oh wait...) Well anyway, she starts relating to me how she was across the hall, and somebody offered to let her use one of the phones there to make a call. And just as she was reaching for it, she stopped as she suddenly recalled that the guy who sat at that desk was someone I had identified as a non-washer. So she jerked back, and then had to come up with an excuse as to why she didn’t actually need to use this guy’s phone. Well I thought that was good for a laugh.
But I think it’s a disturbing problem. I mean, not on the level of global-terrorism or Martha Stewart or anything. But this is my little world, and it drives me crazy. Why can’t people wash their filthy little hands after they pack their belongings back in their shorts and walk away from the stall? Whatever hygenic benefits there are, I think it’s just plain common courtesy. I don’t want to shake hands with your clammy, sweaty hands right after you’ve finished cleaning out the shed unless you’ve given them a little soapy TLC. Bleah. The guy whose phone Jo was afraid to use, was a particularly nasty character. I vividly remember being in the next stall, and after he finished his bizness, I could hear him just a-scrubbin and a-scuffin away with the T.P., and I thought good grief, that stall must look like somebody spilled a shaker of All-Spice in there. And then he just opened up the door to the stall and walked RIGHT out of the restroom. Not even one of those fake half-second washes. ARRRGH. Well anyway, I had his number now. You need to borrow my pen? Naw, you can just have it.
Nasty nasty nasty.
Disturbedly yours,
Jeremy
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