Shower of Shame

Too much information tripe

I've gotten a lot less modest as I’ve gotten older. I suppose that’s natural. Perhaps it’s the case that I’ve simply become less self-conscious, a function of both self-preservation and pragmatism. I just don't have the energy or the time to worry about what people think of me. Particularly when I'm scrubbing out gross places in the shower at the YMCA.

I lead with this little piece of uncomfortable insight to put this next item in context, I suppose. I'm really not that uptight about locker room etiquette. You can't be at the downtown Y, where the demographic mix makes for an almost anything-goes climate in the Men's Metro. Some of these old guys must have been pretty out there in their day, let me tell you. Wrap the towel around your waist, not your shoulders, pal.

So, in this light, I'm here to log a complaint.

There's a guy at the Y who takes dumps in the shower.

Let me clarify – there’s a guy at the Y who routinely uses the toilet located within the shower area.

I really have no idea why the folks who designed the Y a few decades ago decided to put a toilet and urinal right there in the shower, unless it has something to do with the general incontinence of all those old guys. Was this once considered acceptable? Yet there they are, recessed in the corner a bit but fully exposed for the world – or at least me – to see.

Mind you, there are a ton of toilets in the expansive locker room contained within perfectly civilized stalls. So, nobody – and I mean nobody – uses these vestigial receptacles in the shower area.

Except this guy. He walks into the shower area – he’s not even taking a shower; he has to make a special effort – and with towel wrapped around waist, down he flops on the toilet. The towel stays in place, for which I suppose I should be grateful. A few nerve-wracking minutes later and he’s gone, leaving only a flush and some mental scars for those of us trying to get clean.

He’s done this like five times to my direct knowledge, so it must be part of his routine.

Yesterday, I shared this life-affirming experience with a jovial Y compatriot, who is much less modest than I, I assure you. This fellow tends to use the dry sauna without the benefit of towels, and he’s not slight by any measure – after a few minutes of his jogging and bouncing about, you get the general sense that a sheepdog has just shaken itself dry in the sauna. Yum.

Even this unencumbered soul was at a loss for words when confronted with shower scatology.

“Mannnnnnnnnn…” he lamented in hushed tones. “Use the door, baby.”

I could never make it in prison.