I don’t know anyone every though to fear public restrooms except for the occasional germophobes and young children. Maybe even a claustrophobe. But I never thought that I would. I like it best when the restroom is empty or when the other already occupying a stall, so that I never have to see their faces or know who they are. We all just do our business and go without ever knowing the other was there. Planning your escape isn’t too difficult because you merely need to finish before the other persons. Sometimes you need to wait for the others to leave first and that only poses a problem if you’re on some kind of time constraint or if the restroom is excessively disgusting. Even then you just hold your breath, stare at the clock on your cell phone and hope it will all be over soon. You’re nearly free of that recess of hell, just wash and dry your hands and then leave.

With your clean, dry hands, you reach for the door handle only to see the door quiver. All that work wasted! Someone’s coming in. Given my previous descriptions, you’d expect me to retreat into some stall until that woman finds a desirable toilet. Astute observation but it is something I have never done. A part of me still assumes that best in people. The door opens. I step to the side and say excuse me like any polite person would, so that she and I may both pass. Not extending me the same courtesy, she instead lets out a sound of surprise and stares long and hard at the letters W-O-M-E-N on the door. She concluded that her only possible area for error resulted in none on her part instead she decided the mistake must have been committed on my part. She never second-guessed her perceptions. She never thought twice. She accused me of being in the wrong bathroom. That I was a man. She trusted her perceptions so deeply that she never considered that consequences of her being incorrect. The feelings that she may hurt. If I can’t see their eyes, the situation never becomes real. They don’t exist. I don’t know their faces. I can’t picture them in my sleep. I move on. Just when you thought the superficial judgments couldn’t follow you from the playground, you realize that adults are just bigger kids, the world their playground. There is no escape. And yet I find ways to cushion my ego at every turn. But it’s still impossible to walk down the street and not imagine everyone staring at me. Psychology calls this the spotlight effect. But how do they explain it when the feeling is actually very realistic. I can watch their thoughts working behind their eyes.