Navigating Public Bathroom Etiquette: The Unspoken Rules of Public Pooing

Being an empath gets weird in public restrooms. The world is riddled with anxiety-riddled humans. Anxiety, bipolar, anger issues, ADHD, CPTSD, BPD, and so many other alphabet-gang members, all just walking around, trying to get through it all presenting as normal as possible. Being an empath means I often see past the masks. The people-pleasing and forced smiles, the self-depreciating humor and avoidance. It feels almost intrusive being an empath, like I’m in on a secret no one invited me to. And then shame takes over for intruding, even though I never asked to feel other people’s emotions this deeply. I didn’t ask to look at a picture of normal and see things that aren’t technically there.

Take me for instance: I’m a normal person in a coffee shop. No, that doesn’t quite paint the picture. I am a white girl in the middle of a midwest Fall, sipping a matcha oat milk latte with lavender and honey, wearing a sweater over a floral blouse and chestnut brown ankle booties. My hobo bag is hanging on the chair, and I have a 40 oz stainless steel lavender tumbler next to me covered in stickers. I look about as normal as they come. You’d think I was social media influencing - or maybe studying. Yet, here I am, writing about some stranger's explosive diarrhea.

That’s right. We all pretend like we don’t poop in public, but simultaneously, we all collectively know that every single one of us has shit in a Barnes N’ Noble at least once in our lifetime. Honestly, what is it about us as humans that bookstores induce the shits immediately upon walking in? That’s a scientific deep dive for another time and another person, this story takes place in a Midwestern coffee shop, not a bookstore.

Do you ever make those split-second decisions that you immediately regret, but backing out would be worse than committing? That is what I experienced walking into the coffee shop bathroom. I try really hard to present as confident in my choices in public. Nothing occupies my brain for the rest of the day like an awkward reaction (hence this story of public diarrhea), and I’ve learned at this point that awkward reactions usually stem from my indecision or lack of confidence in what I’m saying or doing. So nowadays, it’s usually head high, walk fast, never falter. It usually works out great. Until I’m confidently waltzing into a bathroom stall someone is just coming out of when there’s a perfectly good empty stall just to its right.

In my defense, I was trying to avoid “the dance.” It’s a small space, and when I open the door, I have a visual of this girl in bright blue leggings and tennis shoes pushing out of the stall, and heading to the sink that was directly adjacent to me. I could have stepped into the restroom further, but then our paths would cross and we would do that awkward two-step where you aren’t sure if you’re the one backing up or charging forward into the bathroom stall. So, instead, I sidestepped. That sidestep happened to be right into the entrance of the stall she was coming out of. Since I already stepped in, it would be so much worse if I then stepped out and into the other stall door.

You see, there’s an unspoken bathroom etiquette, or at least that is what my brain, bored in protocol and alertness to others has taught me. If you go into a stall someone was walking out of, you can’t walk out of the stall and into another. That person is going to feel humiliated and disgusting and that memory will become a core memory for them, to haunt them for the rest of their lives every time they brave a public restroom. So instead, I committed. I locked the door and turned around into the stall as I heard the sink faucet turn on. I immediately felt pity, shame, and guilt. I had broken public restroom protocol.

There in the toilet bowl, the shallow-water remnants of what had surely been a massive, Barnes N’ Noble-worthy shit sat. I wanted to flush immediately, but this would also break public restroom protocol. I can’t flush immediately after walking into a stall: that’s another core shame memory instilled for the Poor Pooer! So I took my time, hanging my purse on the door hook and adjusting my basic sweater-blouse combo, patiently waiting for her to finish washing and leave the bathroom. Because in this instance, I can't do what my gut says, which is to yell, “It’s okay that you had to shit; everyone poops!” That would definitely break public restroom protocol.

Once the poor girl I’m sure I’ve traumatized walked out, I flushed the toilet and was relieved to see it went down. Nothing is more panic-inducing than toilet water rising in a toilet that’s not in your own home. My relief turned to annoyance as I realized this whole thing could have been avoided with a double flush from The Pooer. As I turned to sit down and finally relieve myself, I saw the plunger sitting off to my right. Wet, and covered in…well…about the same thing I found in the toilet. My pity and guilt deepened. I wondered if she already left the coffee shop and planned to never return. I know that’s what I would have done. I wonder if she was debating talking to her partner about it so they could help her laugh it off, or harboring it deep inside, never to tell a soul. As I washed my hands (after making sure the toilet was flushed for the next unsuspecting patron), I shook my head.

‘See?’ I thought to myself. ‘All these rules and rituals and protocols you’ve invented are here for a reason. This whole thing could have been avoided had you stuck to them. And now for the rest of the day, you’ll feel guilty for intruding on that poor girl’s public poo.’ I finished lecturing myself and notice Pitiful Pooey had used the last of the paper towels. I sighed in acceptance of this slap on the wrist from the universe before I put on my ‘head high, walk fast, never falter’ mask again and sauntered out of the Pooer’s Palace.