Last week the Powers That Be at the news station in which I work informed us that the restrooms we use every day are being torn down. They will be out of service. For as long as two months.
Do you know how hard it was not to cry right there in front of everyone?
Do you know that a bathroom is a pregnant woman's best friend? Especially in the workplace where any one of as many as six separate fluids are known to be expelled from said pregnant woman's body? At any time! Without warning!
Yes, I count six. Why, don't you know what they are? You know what they are. You're listing bodily fluids off in your head and counting now, aren't you?
What happened was, a couple months ago my boss signed a lease to buy the building next door. We're expanding so they completely renovated the building next door and moved all the salespeople over there. You know, the people that sell commercials that air on our station? Those people. They're lovely people but good riddance, I say. Have you ever tried sharing a three-stall, one-sink bathroom with a hundred women every day? Furthermore, have you ever tried to puke quietly? Exactly.
But now it's time to renovate the newsroom. Which means they are tearing out our bathroom, which means we have to walk to the building next door and use their bathroom. A bathroom with one sink and two stalls, one of which my pregnant body will no longer fit into.
Do you know how many times a pregnant woman pees per hour? Approximate calculation: A FUCKLOAD.
So they give us the big bathroom news and I am so horrified I don't hear the rest of the meeting about how fancy the new bathrooms will be (Hand dryers, y'all! Hand dryers!) and spend the next hour calculating.
If I am peeing an average of, oh say, four times an hour and it's a three minute (SUCH a conservative estimate!) walk next door and let's say I spend a conservative three minutes availing myself of the facilities (barring a goddman line or someone touching up their make-up or flossing their teeth while I shuffle around uncomfortably as my brain screams CAN'T YOU SEE I NEED TO WASH MY HANDS? CAN YOU NOT MOVE ASIDE?!) and then the three minute return trip... Okay so three plus three plus three equals nine times four times an hour equals thirty-six! So thirty-six minutes of every hour will be spent bathrooming?
That's not counting the puke.
I called Serge to complain and he launches into some tired bullshit about how there are people in the world who have it so much worse. Like, DUH. But can you not offer your poor, peeing pregnant wife a little compassion?
I hung up on that bitch and proceeded to tear up in front of a couple co-workers. And because that is not cool, the crying at work thing (which I usually do in a bathroom stall, thank you very much!) I had to take a time out in my car. To feel good and sorry for myself.
And then I started scouting the parking lot for good pee spots.