The geniuses in the maintenance department at my school decided to clean the boys' bathroom today. It was completely closed off for most of lunchtime. I'm sure there's a health code violation in there somewhere, but, being the apathetic student that I am, I really couldn't be bothered to make a fuss about it.

In addition to being apathetic, I am a notorious Mountain Dew drinker; I don't think I could stay awake through third period without it. Today was like any normal day: I downed an entire bottle in the morning, and by the time lunch rolled around, all the excess liquid was begging to be evacuated from my system.

When the bell rang, I shoved my books in my bag and dashed out the door. I raced across campus, whizzing past teachers and pissing off security guards in the process. The janitor's canary yellow sign in front of the men's lavatory stopped me in my tracks, and I felt a lump in my throat, (which verily aggravated the lump in my bladder.)

Not being one to go against good taste and relieve myself in public view, my mind turned to the ladies' room. It was just around the corner, and, at the time, it seemed like a perfectly viable option. The idea was almost inviting, in fact. In men's circles, the ladies' room is regarded with a curious awe and wonder. We imagine pearl-white couches, cottony doves, beautiful paintings (sprawling murals, perhaps) and ducts that emit pungent perfumes to mask whatever daintily-foul smells might otherwise exist; fountains resembling Roman aqueducts carry deep blue water to spotless porcelain chalices that nonchalantly exhibit the epitome of comfort and style.

Even more mysterious are the cultic rendezvous that take place in the girls' restroom. Members of the fairer sex raid the bathroom in hordes. Men simply cannot relate to this phenomenon, and we struggle to deduce what goes on among women sharing a lavatory.

In retrospect, my judgment was completely clouded by an overfull bladder. Reason should have kept me from even considering what I was about to do, but caution was nowhere near my state of mind; my feet casually carried me through the ladies' room door, directly to the last stall on the left. Improbable as it seems, there were no girls in the bathroom at the time. Even if there had been, I would not have noticed; all attention was focused on my mission. Before I knew it, I was sitting on a paper sheet that saved my skin from the low temperatures of the porcelain toilet.

As I sat and relaxed, I began to take in my surroundings. At first glance they certainly did not live up to expectations, but as I acclimated, they became comforting in a way. There were no unfamiliar smells or puddles of urine; the toilet bowl was spotless. My nose met the fresh air with delight and my skin embraced its cool touch. I actually felt comfortable in a public restroom.

When I finished up, I took a look at myself; I was utterly out of place. My fingernails were untrimmed and grimy; my hair boasted tangles and grease; my clothes seemed faded in some spots and stained in others; my skin was blotchy; I felt fat -- or maybe just bloated; I was ugly and alone. Just then, my attention was diverted to soft giggles outside that grew to hearty laughter as four girls walked into the bathroom. I fell silent behind the pink stall door.

Words flew from their lips like sparks from a flaring pyre. They gossiped about friends and enemies, simultaneously campaigning for themselves and assassinating others' characters. They leapt into the subject of men and bragged about mind games and manipulation. The conversation was accompanied by the ambient slurping of lip-gloss, spraying of perfume, snapping of compacts, and scratching of hairbrushes. These girls worked like injured athletes preparing to re-enter the playing field after half time. I heard a short silence, followed by four conceding sighs. They marched out the door and became young ladies once again when the sunlight hit their faces.

I pushed the shimmering metal button on the wall; as it squeaked, the toilet clunkily flushed its contents and let out a startling belch. My lungs seized a gulp of air, and I opened the stall door. The air in the ladies' room reeked of an all-too-familiar scent. I paced outside and around the corner. The janitor was no longer working in the boys' bathroom. I jogged in, washed my hands, then took a look around. I found that, right after it's been cleaned, the men's room feels just like the ladies' room.

On the way to my next class, I passed a young couple dutifully holding hands. They hid behind an innocent smile with opposite fists shoved in pockets. I smiled knowingly back at them and went on my way.

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