Hygiene Anxiety

I was washing my feet today in a public restroom. This means that I had my feet in the sink, one foot at a time. Before entering the bathroom I made the customarily furtive glances around the hallway. Clear. Just a couple of girl gymnasts in biker shorts and spandex tank tops—but they were walking away, in the opposite direction. The bathroom (a two stall, two sink affair) was empty. I turned on the water, both taps—cold and hot to get the right temperature. One foot up and in. I washed quickly, using generous dollops from the soup dispenser and cleansing my feet with speed, but thoroughly. While washing these appendages, various thoughts ran through my head—generally running along the lines of possible excuses I could make for my behavior, should anyone enter. Got a cut on my foot. Stepped in something understandably unpleasant. Or perhaps I’d just try to jerk my foot out of the sink quickly enough that no one would suspect. I wondered what would happen if someone came in, caught me, and disbelieved my excuse of lacerations to my big toe (the lack of bleeding could easily merit this). Would they call security? Would they laugh? Be disgusted? Demand my forced removal from the building? Washing your feet in a public restroom is not the time for deep reflection. It makes me nervous, to be honest. But at home, that’s a different story. That sounds like a good idea to me. A foot in the sink, philosophy in my mind.

I used to be apprehensive about touching up my make-up in a public restroom. But I’m pretty sure that that ended with high school—thank heaven. The foot thing, though, that’s a different matter entirely.