Appreciation of the porcelain throne

Letís talk about toilets. I know what youíre thinking because if I were you, Iíd be thinking the same thing: ďPlease, Damara, it is a pleasant Saturday morning and Iím having breakfast. Why do you have to go and ruin it by discussing this subject?Ē If it makes you feel any better, Iíve already eaten and Iím at work right now most likely dealing with something more disgusting than a toilet. If that doesnít help, I suppose Iíll go ahead and apologize in advance for the rest of this article. I want to begin by thanking the people who continually improve and advance indoor plumbing. I love the fact that I can use my own private facilities daily in my home and I donít have to go outside and maintain some type of disgusting, ill-maintained hole. I remember how much I slacked on a catís litter box so I shudder to think what Iíd do with a backyard waste maintenance program. I also enjoy that I can go pretty much anywhere in the United States and find a restroom. It may not be a fine specimen of a restroom, but it is often serviceable to a minimal degree.
When I was a kid, I had a friend who used scare tactics to divert me from my dreams of taking a trip to France. ďDo you know how they go to the bathroom in France? In a hole in the ground! The men and women do it! They stand there and just go in the hole!Ē This terrified me because I was that kid who never went number 2 away from home. In fact, I didnít go number 2 in a public restroom until I was 23 years old. The day I was told that information about France is the day I crossed Europe off my travel list. If they couldnít retro-fit their public facilities to accommodate shy American colons, then I didnít feel comfortable traveling there. Iím happy to say that Europe is back on my bucket list so donít worry France, I promise Iím going to try ordering coffee and asking how much a pair of sunglasses cost in the worst, broken French one of these days. Last week was the 12 hours of Sebring which I try to attend each year. My husband, Chris, and I decided to stay in our tent on Friday night because it wasnít going to be as cold as Thursday night. Boy was it still cold! Chris escorted me to the nearest bathroom and I chose the one stall without toilet paper. Wonderful. After getting in the tent and bundling up, my nose was the only part of my body I couldnít keep under the covers. It was like having the tip of a popsicle stuck on my face. Around 5 in the morning, Chris was snuggling closer to me for warmth, but my bladder was a bit too full and there was no way I was venturing out into the tundra. My mind told me it couldnít be less than 50 degrees, but my body said it felt like 20 and my backside was convinced the toilet seat would feel like a block of ice chiseled from the edge of a glacier. Because of that adventure, we will not be staying in a tent next year. Thereís just something special about your own bed and even more so about being in the proximity of your own toilet. I know Iíve been appreciating mine a little extra.