We put little signs on the doors to keep men in one room and women in another.
There’s a history to this but I don’t care. I just care about the now, the simple functional elegance of the rest room. An urge strikes, you go into a private place and deal with it. You are not expected to dress for it or have talking points prepared. You do not need to justify your need to be in that place. Everyone gets it.
Of course there are social norms like anywhere else. In some places it is normal to give a head-nod to your fellow shitters and avoid comparing junk at the pissers, stand one urinal apart or take the stall furthest from the next occupied…. sometimes the rule is to not talk at all. Go in, do your business, wash up, and get the fuck out. If you’re at a tractor pull or a major sporting event you might engage in competitive pissing or write your name on the wall depending on how drunk you are.
You do not typically compare stool samples. You do not speculate on the gastro-intestinal alchemy that led to a particular aroma.
To paraphrase the late Dennis Miller, “you pipe it, wipe it, and good night.”
Yes. Lurking in the middle of all this we can find all sorts of strange activities. Drugs, prostitution, lurid encounters using holes drilled between stalls. All these terrible stories do not have parents up in arms about what might happen to their children in the Wyomissing Rest Stop at two in the morning. Parents go in with their kids, scope the joint, and make like the secret service while little Johnny or Jane makes the wee wee or poo poo. It’s really that simple.
If there’s an emergency, we shit in the woods. And there are fucking BEARS in the woods. Snakes and other dangerous shit that will bite you in the taint in the middle of a healthy deuce. Oh my god – where are the danger signs about this?!
Notice that I’m eight paragraphs into this and I haven’t mentioned the “TG” word yet. Because it’s fucking silly. If the only toilet available is in the men’s room – no one is going to burn Harriett at the stake for evacuating the truck stop burrito in the men’s room. No one is going to worry about a man drenched in sweat, hunched over in agony from some ungodly culinary nightmare going into the Ladies Room if it is the only source of dignified and sanitary relief available. Apologies will be exchanged, eyes will be averted and life will continue unabated.
I am not an expert in bathroom affairs, just a witness to (and perhaps a victim of) hundreds of horrifying sensory experiences, not the least of which is the sight of a dozen drunk men pissing into an open trough singing “Dixie” or a lawyer shitting in a thousand dollar suit. I’ve been in bathrooms with crossdressers. I’ve been in unisex bathrooms. I’ve seen stoned girls shitting in urinals. I’ve seen men face down in places just slightly less sanitary than the inside of a bilge. Some people were doing drugs. Others were falling in love. Some were escaping the performance stage for a quick chance to drop their fake smiles and cry out their anxiety. None of these examples were at the local Chili’s. These examples played out in places intended for people over 18. Weird things happen in weird places. It’s life.
But none of that has anything to do with the function of a rest room and who should be allowed to use one. If an establishment puts up gender-specific signage indicated males go into one room and females go in another, it isn’t the management of Pizza Hut’s job to sex the chicks. It is the owner of the swollen bladder or bowel to decide where to go based on their gender identity.
YES, that might make you uncomfortable. But then, who cares about your comfort beyond keeping a clean bowl, sufficient seating, and a full supply of paper towels? Once the stall door is closed, ain’t nobody’s business what happens. And if it captures your interest to the point it distracts you from your own business, the problem firmly rests with YOU.