Once again, my mother is to blame for my paranoia. She has had almost complete control of my bathroom habits for the first half of my life thus far. It was with her that I first experienced the luxury of a public restroom, but not without fear of contracting a life-threatening virus. She showed me the proper way to cover a toilet seat by creating a comfy toilet paper pillow (2 layers of toilet paper, quickly achieved by folding over the toilet paper) covering every inch of exposed porcelain. My sheer laziness has forced me to evolve into a hoverer. But as my dad says, “Lazy people work twice as hard.” And to his credit, hovering sure has (albeit inadvertently) given me some strong legs.
But for those who just don’t care, you won’t really catch anything from sitting on a public toilet seat unless there’s a contaminated needle sitting on it. I will always remember my college roommate plopping her perfect little bare booty directly on a public toilet seat at the football stadium. I could not believe my eyes. This girl, who I lived with for three years, is the biggest clean freak, but apparently not as anal retentive as I thought. She has not contracted gonorrhea, AIDS, crabs, or herpes, or hepatitis to date. Your kitchen sink is probably filthier than her butt cheeks.