I've never been one for throwing up. It's not the result that I dislike, but rather the process. In the same way a trypanophobic becomes anxious when they hear the steps taken for a flu shot or blood test, I am instantly repulsed when a story begins, "And while my head was in the toilet...". My insides begin to churn, threatening to do that which I hate most, and I must cut the speaker off with a frantic wave of my hand.
The same thing happens whenever I hear people eat. I was raised by the strict rule to always chew with my mouth closed. Even oatmeal, which practically slides down the throat, was to be eaten silently. For years, food had only texture and taste. It seemed like all my friends were taught the same thing because it took the college dining hall for me to finally hear the symphony that had been so muted all those years. And what a discordant tune it played.
Scrambled eggs sloshed around mouths in the morning. Soup was slurped with all the subtlety of Liberace. Dinner casseroles lapped against teeth and water was gulped like waves crashing on shore. It was disgusting. Potato chips, corn on the cob, and carrots will inevitably make some noise. But a baked potato? Corn off the cob? Stewed carrots? Some meals all I could do was sit and listen; watching wasn't even necessary.
It's these little things, like the squishing of gum between teeth, that upset people the most. I know a girl who can't stand the word "ointment." Something about the way the vowels meet the consonants and the taste it leaves in her mouth. Another girl I know is so troubled by feet that she can't touch them, let alone have hers touched. And yet another friend can't pee in public because the urinals are just too close. So when I went into a British bathroom the other day to find a trough, I instantly thought of my friend.
If you think of pigs when you read the word trough, you're not alone. The first definition many dictionaries give is a receptacle for feeding animals. Unlike a dog bowl, however, troughs are not very customizable. You could paint one, sure, but it will still be a long, deep box with an open top. You could build it out of wood, I suppose, or plastic, maybe even metal, like the one I encountered, but it will still be communal. You could even take a trough you found on a farm, clean it up (though what's the point?) and place it in the basement of a bar in Bath, England, if you wanted to save yourself the trouble of looking up Trough Suppliers in the phone-book.
In any case, a trough does not qualify as a urinal.
I was horrified. Made of thin sheet metal it stood on four equally thin legs. It was six feet long and a foot and a half wide. The back was a single piece, somewhat reflective, and glistened with trickles of water that flowed in a constant stream from a little pipe punctured with multiple holes. In the center of the base was a small circular drain, no wider than a few inches, though it might as well have been the size of a pin, as an inch of what I can only describe as liquid spanned the entire container. Before anyone else had a chance to come in, I quickly did my business and turned to wash my hands. This wall was no better than the last.
Adjacent to the sink was a coin operated dispenser, mounted high up on the wall. In America, or any normal place, one might have their choice of a fragrance sample or pain reliever. Here, I was to choose between a Vibrating Cock Ring or pills to "keep your pecker up longer."
I ran back up to my table and quickly told my friends of the sadomasochistic dungeon in the basement.
"Yeah, that's what it's like here," replied a male friend.
"Everywhere?" I asked.
"Pretty much."
I was blown away. What about privacy? What about decency? What about the two-stall rule?
If you don't know about the two-stall rule, let me explain. It is a generally accepted practice that men do not pee next to each other. If there are four urinals and the ones on each end are out of order, a man will wait to pee if someone else is already there. Always. But not in England. I can count on on hand the number of restrooms I've encountered where urinals are divided. I need ten hands, however, to count the number of restrooms that place full length mirrors behind urinals. I've caught glimpses of men looking at me in these mirrors, only to realize they were fixing their hair.
I suppose, in time, I'll come to accept this complete invasion of personal space. Millions of British men do it every day. It will take some getting used to, at first, just like it did at meal times in the dining hall. I suppose I may even get back to America, enter a bathroom, and feel a sense of longing for the camaraderie I experienced here. Buying a small packet of breath mints from a wall dispenser, I'll shake them sadly, wishing they would vibrate or help enhance something, anything.
And still, I will always be just a little put off when peeing in a trough.
