Why We Call them Restrooms

December 2, 2010
By cajunqueen1 BRONZE, Shreveport, Louisiana
cajunqueen1 BRONZE, Shreveport, Louisiana
3 articles 0 photos 0 comments

I tap the toe of my blue Nikes on the cold, blue speckled

Tile in a fast rhythmic beat in sync with my heart.
The lesson is nearly over, but the teacher never stops lecturing.

“Always work until the last minute!” she always says.
Beads of sweat seep out of my pores as I grip

The edge of my desk in trepidation.
The steady hands of the clock are working against time;

One second forward, two seconds back.
I furrow my brow into an unsolvable maze on my forehead.

Concentrate. Focus. Just breathe.
The precipitation on my teacher’s water bottle taunts me;

Slowly trickling towards the mahogany desk beneath it.
I hear the bell and the crack of a gun shot splinters my mind

Signaling the urgency of my situation.
I take off, sprinting like mad; weaving in and out of students
knocking down a few on my way towards the icy, ceramic haven.
I karate kick in the door to the stall and barrel my way through;

Not exactly the most graceful, but who really cares?
My levees burst and water comes rushing forth.
Relief at last comes in the rarest of forms.
I let my head fall back onto my shoulders for a minute or two

As I relax in a well-needed break.

The author's comments:
I always wondered what the reason a bathroom was called a restroom. Then one day in class, I came to the realization as the teacher kept lecturing and I was about to explode with a urinary detonation.

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