It is an unspoken rule in my house to never use my bathroom. I really don’t know how the rule started, but it’s in place. People using my bathroom never bothered me when I was a kid. Maybe because I never cleaned it, my dad did. I just pooped, peed, showered and bathed. During family gatherings, people constantly bathed in my shower and used my toilet. I actually didn’t care at the time and wasn’t bothered by the increase of germs in the atmosphere.
I ignored those thoughts for many years before we moved. This may have marked the beginning of “The Bathroom Policy” because after we moved into our new house, I started getting touchy about my bathroom. My parents didn’t make me share a bathroom with my brother. They didn’t think a brother and sister should share a bathroom. I understand why because my brother is gross.
I came home one evening and didn’t notice anything different about my blue bathroom. It smelled cleaner when I came home, but I didn’t think much of it. Then I noticed something that should have never been there. I glazed at the floor and saw it. A small drop of brown on my bathroom floor. I stared at it for a while in denial. I even tried to smell it, but I had refused to get too close. I grabbed some toilet tissue and wiped it up. Keeping it far away from my face, I walked in to the toilet and flushed it. It was human feces. I had human feces on my floor. I don’t know how it happened, nor did I care to find out. I was gone and expected to come home to a clean bathroom, one I had just cleaned. Instead, I came home to a bleach scented infestation. My brother had not only pooped on my floor but also in my shower. My mother tried to hide it by cleaning it, but she missed a spot. A very important spot.
From that day forward, no human and was going to use my bathroom without the side eye of disgust. I was hesitant of anyone who used my shower. I didn’t want anyone using my soap nor my razor. My mother assured me people didn’t do this. I took what she said as true until one day I walked into my baby blue haven and it smelled of Listerine. My aunt not only used my bathroom but also my mouth wash. Her lips had touched my mouth wash. It was still a full bottle so I couldn’t throw it out. I had to bear it until the last drop. However, I washed the lid off with hot water and rubbed it with alcohol. Even more frustrating, I had just cleaned my bathroom and this disrupted the clean vibe I had going on.
I see my bathroom as my own private oasis, not a catch-all for germs and everything else people manage to leave behind. I hate it when people use my bathroom. It’s my private space that only has my germs and my hair. I always knew where the hair came from. The most disgusting thing is to walk into your bathroom and find hair that’s not yours. As my blood pressure would rise, I wiped them with a damp washcloth. No one is to enter my bathroom, so why did this person come in here?
While cleaning up the hairs, I tried to ignore the spit spatter across the mirror from someone other than me brushing their teeth in my bathroom. Did I mention that it’s my bathroom? My private oasis? Oasis are not known for their mirrors covered in gross white stains. I became even more grossed out when my relatives would place their washcloths on the shower rod that holds the shower curtain. I had to pinch the corner with my fingertips to avoid what might be dirt from someone’s butt crack. My skin would crawl.
I feel violated even though I don’t think they knew what they were doing. I wanted to tell them politely, “Put your dirty crap downstairs in the laundry that is near the living room. Because I know you’re not stupid.” I didn’t do it. I wanted to write it on a sign, but how far could my rudeness go? I just grinned and bore it until their visit was over, said my goodbyes, and then pulled out the bleach.