I Pee on the Floor

Not on purpose, mind you. It just happens.

It goes like this: step up to the urinal, tackle out, quick check to establish targeting, let her rip.

I’ve done this so many times, thousands, maybe hundreds of thousands. I don’t really pay very much attention. Pretty much I’m on auto-pilot. My head angles back and slightly to the left. I stare up at the wall, study the tiles, examine the light fixtures, and pretty much just daydream for a little while. Using my ears to monitor accuracy, adjustments to trajectory are made automatically, almost unconsciously. I’m relaxed. It’s like a mini-vacation from work.

It took a long time to even notice the puddle.

When I finally did, I would look at the puddle as I moved away and sneer at it, “What kind of jackass pees on the floor?” The parents of the guy that did that must be really low-down.

Over time a grain of doubt, a spec of self-suspicion crept into my mind. I began to wonder, in a purely theoretical way, if I could be the culprit. Being nearly inconceivable, I didn’t put much weight behind the notion, but I did wonder, on occasion, just a little.

Eventually I decided to do the bare minimum to discover if I had anything to do with it: I would check the floor before doing my business so I would have a frame of reference with which to compare my observations afterwards. This is a much easier thing to plan than to actually do. While I really only want to accomplish one thing in that room (well, two things, but that’s a different post), it does not take much to distract me. In fact, toddlers generally have a longer attention span than I do. And the idea to check the floor pretty much only occurs to me as I walk away from the urinal. So generally, I’m done before I remember. But I persevered.

Eventually I came to realize that I was, indeed, peeing on the floor.

How did this happen? At what point did I become such white trash? I’ve been doing this for years (quite a few) and would like to think with all that practice I’d be pretty good at it by now. Accuracy, for instance, should be second nature. But the evidence is plain enough. Maybe I’ve never been the sharp-shooter I imagined myself to be. Tragic.

I’m not going to clean it up or anything, but it does bug me just a little bit.

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