Rooms of Rest

I looked around me as I sat on the porcelain throne and mulled over the painstaking workmanship propagated on this cubicle of germ ridden real estate.  The 12 x 12 textured brown tiles that covered the walls were interlaced with strips of patterned stone, all separated with a quarter inch of grout that had started out fresh and creamy but was fast deteriorating into something far more dismal, especially in the high traffic patterns.  Admiring my tax dollars at work in the public toilet arena my mind wandered.

What would inspire one to become a public bathroom designer?  When asked at a prestigious party, “What line of work are you in?”  would I respond with, “I make attractive places for people to dispose of unnecessary bi-products?”  When the love of my life asks what kind of a day I’ve had, would I say, “Pretty crappy” or would I change the subject altogether?

On a trip to the U.P. last July I decided to take better note of each waste drop-off since obviously someone put time and effort into the ascetics surrounding the cold, yet vital, equipment.  Some showed signs of much more thought and talent than others, but all had been given at least some attempt at decor.

 One of the most memorable was at The Bear Trap Inn in Michigan's vast acreage of pine forests.  I passed the life-size stuffed black bear outside the restroom and noticed the door was propped open with a small wooden wedge.  I pried the wedge away since I prefer to rest in private and I found two booths, neither of which would completely close.  With my head touching the door of my chosen cubicle and my derriere hovering in a vain attempt to touch nothing, I mused about the necessities of life which lead us to such undignified postures.  Pushing open the tacky (referring to touch and sight) door with my knee I headed to the sink where I cranked open the hot water, trying to come in contact with as little of the spigot as possible.  Fortunately there was soap, but the only towel available was the 50s-style cloth kind that dispenses a strip of smooth, supposedly clean fabric out the front, while rolling up into the back the soiled, wrinkled portion used by the prior patron.  Nervously trying not to think about what all the cooties were doing up inside that dispenser and whether or not they were able to leap from the used towel to the unused one, I dried my hands with full intent to use my sanitizer as soon as I got to the car.

The most exciting stop was the restroom at the school where our two-day family reunion was held.  An old worn work boot of the male variety was stuck in the door, keeping a three-inch opening.  For one heart-stopping moment I thought there was a foot in it.  I never did discover the rationale behind it’s placement since the door was not the locking kind and therefore was in no danger of keeping anyone out or in.  At my first visit I moved the boot but the next time I went by it was back in place.  I kept an eye peeled for a man with one boot missing but he never materialized.

At one of the many rest stops along the interstate from Michigan back to Ohio I had the privilege of drying my hands under an air dryer that took g-forces to new levels.  When I left I was forced to rearrange the skin back over the appropriate fingers, but I was safe in the knowledge that any germ which escaped death by the anti-bacterial soap was surely blown to Siberia by the blast of the dryer.

My favorite public rooms are those in which nothing need actually be touched, but no matter how beautiful or sanitized a room may be, nothing equals the joy of returning to my own inner sanctum at home.  It’s, as they say, the best part of the trip.

Winter

In my neck of the woods the months from November through April are filled with the rumblings of discontent.  I, myself, rather enjoy a good snowstorm although this is something I generally keep to myself because complaining about the weather is a talent most Ohioans develop beginning at age three.  Whether it's rain, sleet, snow, ice, or fog, the winter months are filled to abundance with opportunities to hone one's repertoire of sarcastic commentary.  Even the occasional glimpse of sun lends itself to "run get the camera" or "Grandpa what's that yellow ball?" statements.

This winter was richer than most in its variety of meteorologic violence.  We enjoyed a mud-brown Christmas which, rather than producing thanksgiving for un-delayed flights to visit the relatives, launched a volley of grumbling about the stark ugliness of frigid grime involved in a snow-less Christmas.  We then received repeated, heavy snowfalls giving us opportunities for whining about the driveways which needed plowing and the hazards of road conditions.  The irony of this?  If it's too dangerous to be on the road why does one need to plow the driveway?

Falling moisture at temperatures barely in the freezing vicinity proved to be worse yet.  Wetness turned to ice causing trees to snap under the weight, thus leading to power outages which prevented access to Facebook - the most popular forum in town for voicing ones grievances from everything to our current weight to the state of the nation.

Then the rains came in earnest and with them, warm temperatures which caused the snow to melt so rapidly that floods ensued throughout the state.  Ark jokes abounded and I'll admit to a few of them myself.

So why is complaining about the weather so universal?  And why do most of us, whether we are honest enough to admit it or not, find the rare and cheerful optimist so annoying?  Why, instead of voicing our gratefulness at the warmth of our houses or the hot chocolate we're swilling, do we choose to gripe about the elements?

Bemoaning the weather is an art in and of itself. The weather is something none of us can control, nor predict with anything greater than occasional accuracy. No letter is complete without a full report of current conditions, along with the writer's analysis.  Holding forth on the unfairness of our climate without acknowledging the obvious fact that we choose where we live is a cathartic outlet with which we entertain ourselves during the long, dreary months of our incarceration.  It brings everyone together, no matter our race, creed, political party or lack thereof.  It sees us through until the first daffodil and crocus poke through the ground to remind us there is life outside the confines of our individual abodes.  The lonely optimist waxing forth artificially on the joys of winter feels indefinably bereft in his solitary cocoon of unreality, outside the circle of gleeful, acerbic wit.

With each new morning a glance out the window provides new material for venting our frustrations, most of which probably have nothing to do with the weather.