Within my family, I am well known as the guy who is always smiling when I exit the men’s room.
Whether I am at a fancy restaurant or a baseball game or a conference center, I am likely to encounter something wacky when I answer nature’s call. I would like to think of this as evidence of my finely-calibrated sense of humor, although my family members simply think it’s weird.
Whatever the quotidian functions of a men’s room, these tiny sanctuaries redeem themselves with a seemingly endless river of mirth. Often, I find it difficult to keep straight face until after I leave, which can make the laughter more pronounced as I exit and rejoin my family.
It could be the guy who can’t figure out where to put his hands to activate the automatic sink, or when three guys in a row decide not to use the sink at all. It might be the balding man who’s arranging his hair to cover a giant bald spot, or the sudden awareness of sparjavu. Around December, there's always at least one guy in a tuxedo, staring too intently into the mirror and saying, not softly enough, “Bond. James Bond.”
(Skip this paragraph if you are grossed out easily.) At the ballgame on Friday, it was the guy who drank his beer at the urinal, relieving and reloading at the same time. What a multi-tasker!!
Every so often, I end up laughing at myself, particularly on very bad hair days, when it turns out my shoes don't match, or when I discover I am still wearing a butterfly sticker from a visit with one of the granddaughters. Really, nobody thought to mention that I'm walking around town with a butterfly on my forehead?
I know some people are doubtful about the idea of a men’s room as a comedy club, but I found a new convert the other day at lunchtime. Shortly after I related my tales, he took the opportunity to pay a visit to the relief station. When he came out, he was smiling. Apparently, the faucet on the sink was shooting out, not down, and he now had the appearance of a person who had arrived too late. "Don't look down," he implored, so of course I ended up staring at his pelvic region.
I was truly empathetic, because I have been the victim of an errant faucet more than once. It’s embarrassing, but very funny, and a small price to pay for a good smile.
Who writes this stuff?
Dadwrites oozes from the warped mind of Michael Rosenbaum, an award-winning author who spends most of his time these days as a start-up business mentor, book coach, photographer and, mostly, a grandfather. All views are his alone, largely due to the fact that he can’t find anyone who agrees with him.