My life has been a bit complicated lately. My love life is in shambles, my children don't respect me and I respect them even less, I've been losing feeling in my fingers and toes for days at a time... the list goes on and on. I don't know what has happened to me, but I've been trying to travel a bit more. I guess I felt like some time on the road would help me clear my head and maybe I could find a fresh start. I have had to find ways to keep myself occupied and entertained on my travels, especially since I've been alone for most of them. The only road trip game I know is "I Spy" and it turns out that game is pretty much unplayable unless you're with another person. I can't even remember the last time I had human contact, which is why this blog is so important. The interaction I get here and on my Instagram page are pretty much the only thing that gets me out of my sleeping bag most mornings.
My father always taught me (just as I have taught my own children) that the best way to deal with trauma and stress is to internalize it and try to ignore it for as long as possible. The most effective way I have found to do that is hanging around highway rest stops.
Obviously as a public toilet enthusiast/professional/savant, I have been familiar with the highway rest stop bathroom for many years, but recently I have been able to take a closer look at what makes them what they are.
Highway rest stop bathrooms are, in a word, fine. Just fine. There isn't really ever anything special about them and they are never flashy, but they get the job done and that's about it. They pretty much look the exact same too, no matter where you go. It starts to mess with your head a little bit if you go to too many of them in a row. Sometimes when I'm hanging out in a rest stop bathroom, handing out breath mints or moist towelettes to patrons, I entirely forget what state I am in because that rest stop looks the exact same as the one from yesterday and the day before that. There's almost always grey or tan flooring, white ceramic furnishings, brick walls with some green trim.
I've realized this is kind of a metaphor for my entire life up to this point. Nothing flashy. Just there. Just existing. My wife: just fine. My kids: nothing special. My parents: I can't really even picture their faces. My house: eggshell white. Every memory I have has a bland, beige tint to it. Every thought gives the sensation of eating plain oatmeal. It doesn't even hurt, but I wish I could say it did because that would mean I could feel something. Sometimes I think maybe I died in a brutal interstate traffic accident and now I'm just a ghost, incapable of feeling any sort of human emotion, but then I'm shaken back into reality by the sound of some jackass on the highway laying on his horn and throwing cigarette butts at me through his window.
If I didn't have public toilets I would have nothing.
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