© 2004 Brian Hodges - Please do not remove the copyright from this essay

ver had somebody walk in on you while you were sitting on the toilet? Isn't that embarrassing? Doesn't your face just turn bright red? I'll bet you get really mad at the person don't you? Well guess what. I got no sympathy for you bub. You have obviously never taken the time to learn proper toilet privacy defenses. It's your own darn fault that somebody saw you doing number two.

I grew up in a house where the only doors with locks were the main entrances. The bedrooms didn't lock. Neither did the bathroom. In fact, the bathroom door didn't even shut tight. All it took was a cat's paw to push the thing open. I had a father and a younger sister, not to mention visiting friends and family, who were not prone to knocking before entering a room. But in spite of all these perils weighing in against me, not one person in over twenty-two years of potty training has caught me making pee pees or poo poos.

The key to protection of bathroom privacy is to develop bat-like radar senses. A keen ear allows one to assess threats and formulate a defense. I've never taken an official poll, but I daresay that in ninety-five percent of all toilet-walk-in-ons, the victim never even knew the violator was there. I always listened for footsteps as they came down the hallway, trying to judge by their speed and intensity if this was a parent rushing to relieve their bladder or merely a sibling pretending to be a pony.

As soon as human sounds came within a certain perimeter (I used ten feet as my safe distance), the next phase, subterfuge, began. I had to let anybody within earshot know that I was in there without actually shouting, "I'm taking a crap!" I was trying to avoid embarrassment as much as possible, so subtlety was the key. Sniffling, clearing my throat, rattling the pages on my magazine were all valid diversionary tactics.

Still many came close to crossing the fence-line. But I never allowed them one foot across the threshold before turning them back. Those who ignored my warnings were routed by a direct and forceful "Hey!" as they opened the door.

These days I'm like a man who grew up in a bathroom on the Gaza Strip - always aware of my environment, anticipating where attacks could come from and cutting them off before they occur. No latch on a men's room stall? No problem. As soon as somebody enters the room, I augment my subterfuge by putting my right leg out as a doorstop. An army with a battering ram couldn't invade my private time.

Like I said before, I have no sympathy for people who get walked in on. My motto is, "If you're not prepared, then you deserve to be invaded." At the same time, I'm sensitive to the fact that we live in a relatively soft and danger-free society where people don't have to worry about protecting themselves. When I walk into a men's room, I always check for feet under the stall. Even if there aren't any, I gingerly tap on the door as I slowly slowly slowly open it. I don't stop tapping until the door is all the way open. I'm like the British Army during the Revolution, wearing bright red and pounding on the drums as I march toward a secret fort.

And yet there have been times when the gate has opened, and I find myself looking some seated middle-aged guy right in the face. And he's just looking back at me, surprised! I guess maybe he thought it was God on the other side of the door. Why else wouldn't he have at least said, "Somebody in here"?

I of course instinctively say, "Oh, I'm sorry," and shut the door. But then I get mad at myself. After all, why should I be sorry? That's like one of the bulls in Madrid apologizing to the dope in the red hat that he's just gored. Did he not think the bulls would run directly at him?

It's a dangerous world out there people and the sanctuary of your bathroom won't shield you from it. So take it from me, be prepared, protect yourself, and for God's sake, wash your hands.