In my ongoing effort to needlessly complain about modern life, may I present the next chapter —- the bathroom.
Like everybody (or, at least, almost everybody) else my parents managed to teach me how to properly deal with my personal effluvia before I went to college. At home, it was the porcelain toilet (or as Archie Bunker would say, “terlet”) with the seat adapter for small derrieres, the little step, etc. I figured I was golden.
My father bought a small, swampy piece of land near Lake Erie and built a cottage. He built a boat–a great story for another time–which was tied up out front (COOL!). However, the cottage was originally one room, ergo, no indoor plumbing. However, my aunt and uncle, who had built a year-round house next door graciously let us use their outhouse (EWWWWW!). That was almost enough for me to backslide–but I didn’t. Things putted along normally through the 1950s, 1960’s and into the 1970’s.
I forget what the original reason was, but in the 1970s, there was a huge move to save water. People would put a brick into the tank on the back of their toilets to reduce the amount of water per flush. The mantra was “If it’s yellow, let it mellow. If it’s brown, flush it down.” When visiting someone, it was awkward–do you flush, or not?
Things settled back in, briefly, then high-tech public restrooms became de rigeuer. Self flushing toilets–which scared the you-know-what out of youngsters when the toilet kept flushing as they sat there.
Then, automatic faucets, automatic soap dispensers, automatic towels, and automatic doors took over. The problem is that no two bathrooms are alike, hence I find myself holding my hands under a faucet with a handle or trying to find the handle on an automatic faucet. It’s the same for soap, towels, etc.
If there’s one bodily function that should not be intimidating—you get the idea.
If you’ll excuse me, I need to, you know.