Beware the Fiery Stare of Bar Bar

There's this woman on my floor. Her office is adjacent to the men's rest room. Her desk faces it, but not the women's. So, basically, the ladies get off scott free. But me? I feel judged. I have a small bladder and I drink water regularly throughout the day and, occasionally, I’ll have some extra personal affairs to address that might elongate my stay in the restroom. I believe it's safe to assume my average number of lavatory visits surpasses that of my coworkers.

But every time I go I’m filled with a surge of anticipation, an explosion of wandering imagination, as to whether Barbara Bricks will be there silently, sedentarily judging my intestinal strength, or absence thereof. She passes me in the hallway and I wonder if she thinks, "That's him, that's the scoundrel who slithers past my office door like a summer slug, traveling to defecate in peace, leaving behind a simmering trail of flatulence, while I sit here and fume at the ghastly notion—the actuality—that someone can urinate with such alarming frequency." I'm almost certain this is what she thinks.

My anticipation is multi-operational; if she’s not there when I walk past, I ponder if she’ll be there when I exit, with her head tilted, asking me how long I was in there, through her frigid stare, a glare that requires her bifocals to rest helplessly on the tip of her button nose at the risk of cracking the lenses from her intense ferocity. This indomitable stare is practically strong enough to implode buildings when distributed from her periphery; a man might simply combust if he was to be struck directly. (This may be of grave concern given we work ten floors above the street.)


Now, every time I approach the restroom, watching her office entrance grow larger with each step closer, I fret and I laugh. I laugh because I have vilified her in my mind—given her the villainous moniker of Bar Bar Bix—and am supremely amused at the thought that my excretion patterns have given birth to some internalized super hero vs. villain story line. It’s a lame story, really. So sad, in fact, that with each visit to the toilet I prepare myself with childish giggles and mumbled phrases like, “so we meet again Bar Bar” or “I’ll get you some day Bix.”

I think she needs a costume.

I fret because I wonder if this will be the moment she confronts me, asking me to defend my irregularities. But what limits does Bar Bar’s tact know? Common office etiquette would suggest that such a question would be rude, offensive, inappropriate. Still, given her dark side, will tact be collateral damage—an innocent victim in a vicious struggle to deny a man his right to relive himself in a zone free of judgment? Will she suppress her urge to question my tendencies so much that one day she simply invades the men’s room to certify herself what activities are occurring a mere ten feet away from where pictures of her yet-to-be-corrupted grandchildren reside? This will be a fateful day.

Until then, I’ll continue to walk to the restroom with giddy reserve, awaiting the moment my sphincter must rise to the diabolical challenges of Bar Bar Bix, with my magazine rolled tightly enough to discreetly fit into the back pocket of my chinos. If Bar Bar knew that I read when I went, it might provoke her to erupt prematurely. And that, assuredly, would be the end of days.

For now, though, I’ve got some reading to do.