Don’t worry, this only tangentially deals with those acts of a digestive nature that occur in the bathroom. It deals instead with how a particular bathroom—the one by my office, at the end of hall; you know the one—is a microcosm of what it’s like to have ADD.
It hit me when I had to, ahem, go. I was carrying my book down the hall and remembered that I was nearly out of toilet paper, and kudos to me for remembering this beforehand. So, naturally, I went to the kitchen and grabbed the new rolls off the kitchen counter, a four-pack of Charmin I purchased a week ago with groceries. The groceries made it into the fridge; the toilet paper did not.
I returned to the bathroom, book in one hand and the toilet paper tucked under an arm like a football. I set the book down, spread open so I would not lose my place, on the case for the hair trimmer, which was the only place to set it so that it would not pick up any tiny brown hairs that remained from when I trimmed my hair a week ago.
I poked a hole through the plastic with my finger and ripped the package open. Did I immediately put a new roll onto the dispenser? No, and this is where the ADHD really kicks in. Remember, I was only nearly out of toilet paper, meaning that I still had some. About a, uh, visit’s worth remained. Of course, the nearly empty roll was not on the dispenser. It sat on the back of the toilet. Well, I couldn’t tolerate both a new roll and an almost empty roll sitting on the back of the toilet—I mean, that’s clutter. So, I take the almost-empty roll and put it on the dispenser, pick up my book, and proceed to, um, read.
When I was finished—oh, dear, I’ve run out of pauses—taking my shit, I used what remained of the almost empty roll, flushed, washed my hands, and then walked across the hall into my office to write all of this down in a post called “ADD in the Bathroom,” only realizing halfway through the writing that the now empty roll is still on the dispenser while the new roll is still sitting on the back of the toilet.
The new roll will probably stay there until I am doing something unrelated and suddenly feel an itch that can only be scratched by putting it on the dispenser. Or until that time you tell me you are coming over. And then, in my scramble to not appear lazy, I will change the toilet paper, but I will forget something, like the vacuum cleaner, which will still be standing in the dining room from the last time I cleaned. The vacuum will be one of the first things you notice when you walk through the door.