I am glad that I am a guy. Maybe that sounds a bit arrogant, but every day there seems to be more reasons for making that statement.
I have two pairs of shoes, one brown, one black, I have one five-year-old wallet that holds all my stuff and matches all my clothes. If I am a groom, all I have to do is rent a tux and show up.
There are many personal and social reasons to remind me to be thankful for my gender.
This summer, during a discussion with four lady friends, they reassured me just how lucky I was. The discussion was centered on outdoor car shows, fairs, music concerts or community events. The one thing these events have in common is the port-a-potty. The privy, the outhouse, the jiffy john — whatever name you may have for the original unisex washroom, they stand along the fence or the edge of the field at every event.
I learned some amazing facts about women using these facilities. Apparently, no part of their body is allowed to contact anything inside this chamber of horrors. The door latch is closed with your elbow because who knows who might have touched it last.
No part of your clothing should touch the floor and this can mean assuming a position whereby your hands are holding up your pants and you are gripping the strap of your purse in your mouth. I learned that if a purse touches the floor of an outhouse, that purse must then be thrown away.
To maintain this crouch for any length of time requires at least four groups of muscles. This explains why so many women go to yoga or Zumba classes, because a cramp in a calf or a thigh could cause a loss of the intricate balance required for this event.
A loss of balance could send you forward into the plastic door and possibly outside into the waiting line up, or worse yet, backward on to the seat of this den of evil where there are billions of types of bacteria carrying thousands of diseases known and unknown to man.
The entire time this is taking place they are holding their breath and repeating, “Don’t look down, don’t look down.” It seems that any olfactory or visual stimulation can initiate the gag reflex which creates a whole new set of problems.
There is an additional scenario which includes the introduction of a wasp or a large spider into this dark lair, but that is another story in itself.
Once finished, they lather with 10 or 12 pumps from the soap dispenser and burst through the door gulping in fresh air like a pearl diver surfacing from the depths.
Quite an ordeal, indeed.
Meanwhile, I walk in, whistle a happy tune, wipe my hands on my jeans and I’m done.
If you believe in reincarnation, put your order in now to come back as a guy.
At least that’s what McGregor says.