I, for one, would never pick my nose and place the finding(s) on a bathroom wall. Yet this is the scenario that I’ve confronted for the past three weeks. My office shares space with another large office group. They comprise the 1% club; these are the men and women who have Brooks Brothers on speed dial and six bedroom vacation homes complete with lakeside docks and boats named ‘easy money,’ ‘free breeze,’ or ‘trust fun’ just to rub all those well-worn deck shoes and polo pony-this/that & the other in our face. I want to shit in their imported French cheese-filled wicker hampers.
A few weeks ago I mindlessly stood at the urinal — aimed, and found myself distastefully affronted by god-knows-what stuck to the wall at can’t miss eye level. And the foreign object is still there, drying like a dead grape. It begs the question how a nightly cleaning crew could polish urinal handles to Newport Gilded Age perfection but yet leave a crusty booger in full view. It angers me every time I whizz because someone is not doing their job. Sure, I could grab a fistful of damp paper towels and remove the visual offense but then I don’t think it’s any of my business to remove the goddamn thing just because some cuff-linked douche couldn’t walk 10-feet to the towel dispenser. In matters of distaste I am not the clean up woman.
Does the perpetrator receive some adrenaline rush with his Zorro-like handiwork? I get that because I jerk off for the endorphins but that is not anything I do in public. Or in a bathroom. Other than that one time. But it was after hours. And before the cleaning crew. And offended no one other than my own sense of catholic guilt and smirky shame.