The Sanctity of a Woman's Bathroom

Not long ago, in a tight, poorly lit women's bathroom, I came face to face with a quote that stuck with me for months. Fresh off a nauseating breakup, I sat, pants around my ankles all the way to my dirty white Converse, mostly gray now. The oak, wooden bathroom door read, “I hope your heart breaks so deeply, it breaks wide open.” 

This time, I was going to let my heart break open. Moving forward with love, I washed my hands in love, I returned to the outside world, my favorite coffee shop in a new city with love, hell… I went back to him with love. 

But that wasn't the first heart-to-heart I've ever had in a woman's bathroom. 

A woman’s bathroom is a sacred and holy institution. 

One not intervened upon by the state of men. 

A woman's bathroom exists not as the antithesis of men. It is not devoid in opposition. It is devoid in the ignorance of the existence of man. 

How beautiful that ignorance is. Not in hatred of men, but in the glory of a space of unperformativeness. 

The world we live in is a world not built for women. In this world, women, the disaffected, should stand together in a clergy of the minority. Instead, often pitted against one another for some type of upper hand in the game set forth by the patriarchal condition. 

The game of hunting for attention, love, and influence in a world built around ones worth being directly tied to their place in the race of getting married, having children, being a mother, whilst maintaining the cool girl career path, raving in Ibiza and never losing the snatched waist because what is a woman if not boiled down to the size of her waist. 

Despite the tireless attempt to have it all, one must not be like other girls too much. One must stand out and be cool, but not in an artificial way that's manufactured to fake that you aren't actually one of the girls. It will never be enough. 

The game is the fabrication of hostility between sisters.

But in the sheen of the mirror, the share of lip gloss, the holding of hair, the pass of tampons below the doors, the on-hand sewing kits repairing skirts between drinks, the smoke and mirrors truly give way in a woman's bathroom to the camaraderie of strangers unified in the rampage of the game. 

This space, which initially elicits a sense of privacy when glanced upon, conversely creates a sense of intimacy and vulnerability when it is allocated and opened to others. 

In the bar, I will simply give attention to the conversation between a man and I as he tells me about his intense workout regime, new favorite way to cook an enormous amount of protein with every meal that he simply must believe I know nothing about, and his new earth shattering philosophy on life (a thought I first had in the fifth grade.)

I won't say much, but my simple ability to hold a conversation and ask questions will drive him to utter close to my ear, (a move that I know all too well is convenient and blameable on the loud music,) “you're not like other girls,” a phrase that would have given me an ego boost a time ago, now irks me. 

To pit me against my own sisters. 

His game of catch and release leads him to glance around the bar to see if the girl on his hook is adequate or if he should keep playing the field. Between these glances, I'll slither off the hook and away to the bathroom.

In the bathroom, I am proud to be like other girls. The game is to make us believe that there is something wrong with the things that bind us as women. The fellowship in a woman's bathroom is the grass to be touched. The mystique is a safe space. 

The shared, slurred praise spewed from girls I do not know but understand on a fundamental level. The mystique of a woman's bathroom. The translucent powder fills the room like a fog machine fills a tunnel before storming a football field. Preparing to return to battle. The feeling of sitting inside the enclosed boats before rushing the beaches of Normandy. 

The stalls, like booths of a confession, breaking the game, a pause, a time-out, a gasp for air.  

Here in the women's bathroom, I am proud to be like other girls; we’re all just like other girls. 

Strike Out,

Delaney Holman, Writer

Strike Magazine Chattanooga