Dear Women Who Won’t Sit Down,

I feel sorry for you. I really do. Because I think you live in fear. I’m not sure what, though, you are afraid of, exactly.

We’ve all heard those vague stories about things you can “catch” from a toilet seat. Did you believe those stories? Did you? Did you really think the toilet seat in that Beverly Hills vegan restaurant was teeming with STDs or pubic-hair parasites? And that your predecessor’s affliction could be passed on to you by putting your bare buttocks where her bare buttocks had been? Because, see, that’s crazy to me. Maybe you should speak to your physician. I’m sure he or she could set you straight on that.

Maybe your objection is not medical. Perhaps you object to the mere idea of placing your buttocks where someone else’s bare buttocks have been, period. I can’t imagine how you get through the rest of your life, if this is a serious concern of yours, but OK, say that it is. Hell, let’s just say that you have a very good reason to pee crouched over the toilet seat. It’s insane, make no mistake, but let’s just say that it’s not. Surely you must realize, surely you must, that not all women share your neurosis. Why, you must know this, or else the seat would not be fearsome to you, being free of bare-buttock contact as it then would have to be. So then why, knowing that some of us choose to throw obsessive caution to the wind and sit, why do you plague us with your leavings? Why not extend that obsession with cleanliness to include a quick post-pee wipe-down of the offending seat? Do you not realize how vile it is to me to (through no fault of my own) be made to sit in your urine? Because it is vile to me, and hateful, and it fills me with shame for the weaknesses of my sex.

I hate you, I really do, for your inconsiderate nature, for your irrational notions of disease pathology, but mostly, I hate you for your cowardice. And I pity you. I really, really do.

Victoria H.