I'd Rather Not Describe it Further

I’ve been working in an office setting for almost 30 years.

I’ll give you a moment to absorb that, time to perhaps make arrangements to send me flowers or gift cards toward adult beverages.

Thirty years of hourly wages, of benefit packages, of losing and finding umbrellas, of “work” heels tucked under my desk, of plants and lunch rooms and spreadsheets.

And bathrooms.

Now, I’m not here to demand lotions, hair sprays, feminine hygiene products or any of the things that a civilized business would offer its female employees. It would be nice, yes, but that’s not what I’m on about today.

No. I want a radio.

There’s no point in us going into exactly what recent and particular development has me wishing there was an audio distraction. There’re five stalls in that room – there’s no need for us to discuss the acoustic properties of tile.

And there's no need to bend down in order to see the shoes connected to such an intestinal event.

We're too mature for that.

Let us suffice it to say that bathrooms are necessary places, and that the odds are good that at some point you are going to hear things that you’d rather not hear.

Thus, the radio.

I’m going to a thrift store this weekend to buy a second-hand radio.

I think it’s the humane thing to do.