the taming of the Loo

Disclaimer: this particular post was constructed after a literally physical fight with a paper towel dispenser for over twenty minutes. Despite the overtone of bitterness, the content remains true and accurate.

At some point in the last decade, the powers that be have determined that, for fear of germs, a person should be able to completely navigate the restroom in its entirety without touching a single surface. Despite having existed for literally centuries by touching the bathroom facilities (and still remaining alive), a deep, primal fear has been sparked in college faculty that any contact whatsoever with the toilet/flush lever/sink/faucet/soap dispenser/paper towel dispenser/hand dryer will result in an immediate and contagious death. 

Presumably, it is for this reason that the modern college bathroom is structured in such a way. The toilet flushes itself at will when an unsuspecting person sits or stands within its vicinity, even if they are not finished. Despite the colleges' water-conserving crusade, the demon toilet gleefully wastes up to three times the water as a traditional, germ-infested one. Perhaps the lack of human contact has caused attachment issues. Personally, I believe it is simply vindictive.

After maneuvering through the trial of the petulant toilet, one realizes that the dispenser for the translucent toilet paper has, conveniently, run out. One is forced to choose between asking someone in an adjacent stall or fumbling to grab a few sheets the size of tissues from the next stall on their own. Fortunately, although embarrassing, this does not happen on a regular basis.

When one is finished running the gauntlet in the stall, the next proper step leads them to the sink. The modern college bathroom sink is a brilliantly designed instrument where, using high-tech technology, one can apply soap, wash and rinse their hands, and dry them completely, all without making any physical contact with the appliances. The modern college bathroom sink is quite a genius design. However, there is one flaw; nothing works properly. The soap dispenser grinds like an automatic pencil sharpener so you know it's working, however, it produces no soap. Short of smashing the thing, one must be satisfied with the four suds that it finally produces, evidently from foaming at the mouth; after all, it has been working hard. The sink, compensating for the wasteful spiteful toilet, spits out lukewarm water in 1.5 second increments. In between these trickles, the poor victim, who is rapidly regretting using the restroom, frantically moves their hands in circles beneath the faucet in a desperate attempt to find the sensor that dispels water, only to have their hopes crushed 1.5 seconds later when the water stops again. Experts say that the proper hand-washing technique is to hold your hands under running water for at least 20 seconds. Be comforted, your college is germ-conscientious.

Adjacent to the sink is two forms of hand drying apparatuses; there is the automatic air blow dryer or the lower-tech paper towel dispenser. Both of these have been outfitted with their new and improved versions, where hands placed below the dryer produces a stream of hot air or the simple act of waving in front of the dispenser will provide you with a sufficient-but-not-wasteful amount of paper towels. Given the fact that these are the last devices the unfortunate victim will encounter before leaving, they have become malicious tormentors. Taking its cue from the sink, the air blow dryer will spurt out two seconds of scalding hot air when the hands are, ironically, placed outside if the airflow; once the hands return to the proper position, the machine will abruptly come to a stop. The dryer will alternately sputter start and sputter stop like a leafblower running out of gas until the exasperated sufferer will turn their dripping hands to the paper dispenser. Sadly, this fatal mistake plays directly into a trap. The paper towel dispenser, proud to be the center of attention, will gleefully run its motor to laboriously produce two inches of towel. After it's proud accomplishment, it will be unresponsive for roughly 15 seconds before jerking back to life with an irritated groan. Be satisfied with however few inches you are allotted; they often enjoy jamming themselves.

Despite being a rough generalization, this description holds true for 90% of college restrooms. Some actually work (I am told, I have never encountered one). Others are a hybrid of modern technology and traditional germ collecting equipment. Then there are those that no one dares to use, mainly because the last janitor sent to clean them was never heard from again. But restrooms are a necessity to the school day, so either hold it or get really brave really fast.