The Restroom I Should Have Used

Or: The Day I pitched both woo and poo

As Chronicled by Orson Shakespeare McSeinfeld

By Mason Absher

ORSON SHAKESPEARE McSEINFELD

There are moments in a person's life when the body makes a reasonable request and the mind—out of pride, fear, or misplaced dignity—says no.

This is one of those moments.

It Began at Denny's

It began, as many mistakes do, at Denny's.

Late. Warm. Reliable in a way that suggests you will be fine later without ever promising it.

The Grand Slam had lived up to its name. Pancakes stacked with the confidence of architectural achievement. Eggs that glistened under fluorescent lights. Hash browns that promised nothing but delivered everything. I ate like someone who trusted the future. I drank coffee like I had plans—multiple cups, each one a small act of defiance against the late hour.

The meal sat comfortably. No warnings. No subtle hints of betrayal to come. Just satisfaction and the warm glow of calories converting to energy, or so I believed.

I paid the check. I stood. I prepared to leave.

And then—at the door—I ran into them.

A small group of women. Laughing. Stylish. People I had once fancied and, if I'm being honest, still believed might someday find me impressive under the right lighting.

The kind of encounter that activates every social instinct you've developed since middle school. Stand up straighter. Smile naturally but not too much. Project the energy of someone whose life is going exactly according to plan.

We exchanged pleasantries. Smiles. That brief social agreement that says, We are all doing fine.

They asked how I'd been. I said great, great—work was good, life was good, everything was wonderfully, unremarkably good. They nodded. I nodded. We all nodded in the universal language of people who haven't seen each other in years and probably won't again for several more.

I nodded. I waved. I exited.

Perfect execution. A flawless dismount from an awkward social moment.

The Request

Immediately, the body renewed its request.

Not unkindly. Not dramatically. Just firmly.

The restroom was right there.

Clean. Functional. Available.

The sign was clear. The path unobstructed. The door—unlocked.

This restroom asked nothing heroic of me. Only honesty.

But I had been seen.

And in my mind, this mattered.

What kind of man turns back to use the restroom after a charming farewell? What story would that tell? What image would it disrupt?

So I did what many adults do when given a simple, sensible option.

I chose the harder one.

I chose the car.

The Educational Drive

The drive home became... educational.

Each stoplight a negotiation. Each turn a new theory.

You're almost there. This will pass. You've endured worse.

I had not.

The first mile was manageable. Uncomfortable, yes, but manageable. I adjusted my posture. I focused on breathing. I told myself stories about human resilience, about people who had crossed deserts and climbed mountains. Surely I could manage a fifteen-minute drive through suburban streets.

The second mile introduced doubt. The third mile introduced panic.

By the fourth mile, I was no longer driving. I was bargaining. With my body. With the universe. With every deity I could remember from world history class.

Somewhere between confidence and catastrophe, the lesson arrived. Quietly. Decisively.

And there, behind the wheel, gripping it like a life raft, I learned a truth that should be taught much earlier in life:

Dignity is not preserved by denial. It is preserved by knowing when to say, "Excuse me. I'll be right back."

I made it home. Technically.

But something had been lost.

Not just comfort. Not just pride.

The illusion that adulthood means you are always in control of the story.

The Truth

The thing is—no one would have cared.

No one would have noticed. No one would have revised their understanding of me based on a brief detour toward plumbing.

This is almost always the truth.

And yet we convince ourselves otherwise.

Reflection

I think about that restroom often.

Not because of what happened afterward, but because of what it represented.

A moment when the world was still willing to help me.

A place built, maintained, and waiting for a need that is neither rare nor shameful.

A place that said: You may stop. You may tend to yourself. You may continue afterward.

It had everything. Soap. Paper towels. A lock that worked. Adequate lighting. Everything a person could need to address a biological reality with dignity intact.

And I walked past it. Not because it wasn't there. Not because I didn't need it. But because I had constructed an elaborate fiction in which using it would somehow diminish me in the eyes of people who were already walking to their cars, already forgetting our conversation, already moving on with their lives.

We don't talk enough about how adulthood frames self-care as weakness. As indulgence. As something that must be justified instead of assumed.

We are taught to push through. To make it home. To hold it together.

But holding it together shouldn't mean ignoring basic human needs. It should mean having the wisdom to address them before they become crises.

Sometimes, the braver choice is five quiet minutes behind a locked door with a functioning sink.

The Lesson

That restroom is still there.

Welcoming someone else who will hopefully make a wiser decision.

I don't regret leaving Denny's when I did.

But I regret believing that being seen was more dangerous than being honest.

The restroom I should have used was never about embarrassment.

It was about permission.

And I am learning—slowly—to grant it to myself.