RIIIIING~ RIIIIING~ RIIIIING~The woman answered her cell mid-flush. I listened in on the short conversation from the next stall – because you know the one thing classier than answering a phone on the toilet is eavesdropping in a Walmart public washroom.
After telling the caller she’d phone him/her back, she hung up and started carping to her real-time companion on the other side of my monkey-in-the-middle stall:
“I hate answering my phone when I’m on the can!”
“Ya, me too,” agreed the friend. “Who was that anyway?”
“I have no idea.”
Maybe I’m a luddite, or just a stubborn hold-out when it comes to that quaint little concept of personal privacy, but I can’t help wondering why any phone HAS to be answered the moment it starts ringing. I suppose, like new mothers, we’re all programmed to respond to the wailings of the people who need us, but what about the mystery? The anticipation? At least wait out the flush, people. At least the flush!