The Commode

Our office building recently did some renovations, one aspect of which included a brand spanking new restroom. Let it hereby be known: there is nothing quite like dropping your drawers and planting your behind on a throne that has never before been used. There’s a serenity to it, a perfect calm. You take comfort in the undisputable fact that no one else’s hairy tush has ever before soiled the seat of what is truly a splendid piece of defecatory engineering.

As I stepped into the recently completed bathroom (and hopefully future refuge) for the first time, I was struck by the pristine completeness. Having never before used facilities that were not hygienically dubious at best, I was left in awe at the vacuum of quiet, as though all previous restrooms had screamed their filth, while this one resonated only cleanliness. Entering the monastery-like solitude of the cubicle, the glistening, cream-tinted toilet cover beckoned me towards it. The floor was spotless. The toilet paper, never before used, hung in convenient reach, embracing its roll with a tenderness not generally associated with bathrooms of any sort.

But what impressed me most, and has continued to impress me time and time again in this strange and wonderful country, was the automatic heated seat, which on this snowy March morning was icing on the cake of what was already a truly pleasurable sojourn into pooping wonderland. Despite the abundance of such toilets—ones that don’t leave you cringing in the last moments before butt meets seat—it still remains a pleasant surprise every time.

Even while using the marvelous piece of equipment, I was aware that each consecutive use would prove gradually less extraordinary and bring it closer and closer to the filthy pestilence-ridden gas station toilet holes we all know and despise, but the knowledge that this throne of glory would unavoidably decline in grandeur, like a flower wilting in the autumn sun, simply made the experience all the more enriching.