The Blue Stuff

All weekend, the dormitory bathrooms had gone uncleaned and with 40 young men on a floor who spent half of their waking hours inebriated with poor aim, upset stomachs and angry GI-tracts, the environment was not suitable for the senses.

But Monday mornings were the best. If you woke up early enough, you could walk into the stall of your choosing and be guaranteed that you were the man first there after Lois had made it all shine once again. After it had been disinfected and smelling like a chemical-ized version of a flower-filled meadow, I would sit quietly in stall #2, reading Calvin and Hobbes.

Seventeen years later, I remember fondly walking into the bathroom on Monday and sitting on my favorite seat, still with a hint of blue in the water. By Wednesday, I would hesitate to sit down in the same spot. By Friday, I would not want to walk into the room. But on Mondays, I felt like I was home.

My mom had always used that blue stuff too.

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