Do you count too?

So there I was sitting at my desk one day at work, when I decided it was probably time to take a bathroom break. Now, I can't say I'm a fan of public restrooms, but who is right? I mean I'd be kind of freaked out if a met a raving fan. But I try to make it a point to use the restroom while at work because I'm a college student, and the toilet paper is free. One wouldn't think that would be an issue, but toilet paper is expensive! And plus, my roommate Nathan claims we go through it too quickly. I told him how many squares per sitting I use in a vain attempt to prove I was conservative, he thought I was weird for counting. That awkward conversation has now spread throughout most of my Provo group of friends and now everyone is counting squares. How many do you use? Systematic? Just grab a wad? Fold? Bunch? Apparently the world wants to know.

Anyway, back to my story. So I headed to the public restroom. It smelt of oranges in there, as usual. I swear the automatically timed air freshener is possessed. It's at perfect eye level and has almost blinded me on several occasions with sweet-citrus pain.

So I locked myself into a stall and... well... ...... I feel like this post is getting too graphic. I'll spare you the imagery. SO, the restroom was empty, which is preferable, until the janitor came in, which isn't uncommon. He tends to wander the building and clean whatever is nearest. He started mopping, which I thought might make my exit slightly more dangerous than usual. But don't worry, I have incredible balance.

The janitor walked past my stall (which, naturally, was in the furthest corner possible). Then the dream-like sequence began. As I peered through the unnecessarily large, gaping slit where the door is hinged, I realized the janitor was a woman. "Hmmm," I thought, "this is awkward." Her mop casually swept beneath my door, then she tried to push the door open. My body froze in a state of panic. Thankfully, the thin metal lock held like a champ.

The janitor came to an instant realization that she was not alone. The mop dropped from her now lifeless hand, but she had effectively exited the bathroom in a full sprint before the mop even hit the floor. When I left, she was nowhere to be found.

In my defense, there were no signs up that the restroom was closed. And in her defense, accidents happen. I've been eating for 23 years and still manage to bite my tongue on occasion, if that isn't proof that there are honest mistakes out there, I don't know what is. Needless to say, this didn't help cure my phobia of public restrooms...