An ode to the Missourian restroom

Last Friday, as you know, I had my first General Assignment shift–my first time working in a full-fledged newsroom anywhere. One may say I was “spiritually unprepared” for the experience. In between Doris Wiggins calls and trips to the police station I fled to the quiet sanctuary of the toilets. Not to sound perverse, but going there actually gave me some much-needed reflection time. I could hear myself think, map out Doris’ story in my head, think about what I needed to get done for the Vox spring preview (coming soon!). I felt genuinely appreciative towards my ceramic sanctuary and wanted to commemorate the moment… hence this post. And so, without further ado, “An ode to the Missourian restroom.”

Restroom, oh restroom.

Where I scramble to escape the ringing phones, clacking keyboards, garbled reporters’ voices. Where everything is cool, white, ceramic (except for the floor, which is a peeling ecru. What Mystery Juice puddled down there between stalls? Never mind, I’d rather not know…).

Where I sponge the excess oil from my face with a piece of thin-because-it’s-cheap toilet tissue and tilt my chin to scrutinize what little makeup remains: a sure sign of a full day’s work.

Where I lean over the drip-drip-dripping faucet, peer into the mirror and say bracingly to my reflection We-ell, you’d better get back out there. They’ll be missing you.

But, when I re-emerge after 17 minutes and 43 seconds, it’s as if I’ve never left.

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An ode to the Missourian restroom

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