I do not understand finance. I thought Immunology was bad for making up its own vocabulary and calling it English, but I swear, these Finance Folk (FF) are no better... actually they are worse. Immunologists at least realize that they may be making no sense to the lay person, whereas FFs blithely continue rattling away about their CIRs, portfolios, maturities, dividends and whatnots.
And the totally strange thing is, you don't need a PhD to understand all this, apparently. Janitors and bus drivers know about this stuff!
Check out this sentence (and congratulations to you if you can figure out its meaning... no points if you work in a bank or any other financial institution):
"The Comparable Interest Rate (CIR) is the after tax rate of return necessary on a savings account under a "buy term and invest the difference" scenario so that the value of the account is equal to the policy's total cash value at the end of the comparison year."
Err... okay
Thursday, February 25, 2010
Wednesday, February 17, 2010
Prepared Childbirth Classes
In a sudden panic attack over the impending arrival of the Wiggly Fetus into the world, I'd signed up for two classes at the Magee Women's Hospital: Prepared Childbirth (not the one with Lamaze) and Baby Basics for First Time Parents. I registered, paid the money, and forgot all about the classes (does that happen to you too? Do you feel like your job is done once you shell out some money for something?).
There I was, hanging about in lab yesterday, playing Minesweeper and browsing the net without a care in the world. I'd typed in "Post Doctoral Careers" in Pubmed to see what I'd come up with (a more amusing pastime than one might imagine, Pubmed having the worst search engine in the world) and among the results that came up were "First time childbirth experiences in and out of the hospital: a case study in Australia". How could I ignore something like that? I clicked on the link, opened the report and saw something about midwives and home deliveries and breathing exercises and it struck me with a flash that I'd recently paid a lot of money for learning how to breathe. Shoot! Had that thing already started? Could I get a refund if the classes were already over?
I googled Magee Women's, got hold of their phone number and called. After umpteen transfers and many hours of holding, I got hold of a woman who seemed to know what I was asking about. "Which class did I sign up for, again? When did it start?", I enquired. I was in luck. The first class of the Prepared Childbirth series was that very evening, from 7 to 9pm. "Excellent. I was just checking", I said, as though I had known about this all along. Five minutes later, I called the woman back and asked, "So, what exactly am I supposed to bring to this class? Do I need any special clothes?" She didn't know. She thought I'd probably require comfortable clothes.
By 5pm, I was done with work, bored, hungry and cold (like all buildings in America, in my building too, the heaters are kept at full blast, and the air conditioners switch on automatically, so that each room is either too hot or too cold). I thought I'd get to the hospital by 6:30, grab a bite to eat at the hospital cafeteria before heading to the class. The weather had other plans. It was snowing and blustery outside and a thin sheet of ice had formed on the sidewalks, so that walking was difficult. I slid and skid my way to the bus stop, realized that all the available buses had just passed by and that it was too cold to hang about waiting, and walked on to the hospital. It took me a good 20 minutes more than anticipated to get there, what with the waddling and skidding and I regretfully dismissed the idea of getting food first and made my way to the class.
"No support person"? asked the woman there, as she took in my bedraggled state. "Nope, just me", I said and walked in.
Soon, the other members of the class began walking in- always in pairs. I pretended to be engrossed in a booklet that the instructor had kept for the students (though, soon enough, there was no pretense required- that book had some pretty detailed info about why I had the various aches and pains that I did. Made me feel much less of a hypochondriac). Anyway, by about quarter past 7, the class was full and I took a good look at my classmates.
Firstly, the demographics: Most were women in their mid twenties to mid thirties, like me. Two were teenagers- definitely not older than 18 or 19 years.
All the twenty-thirty year old women (excluding me) had brought their husbands along. The two teenage girls came with their mothers.
Directly opposite me was a woman who was just downright beautiful. She had a such a maternal look on her face, I instantly named her Madonna- not the Kaballah lady, the Renaissance one. I couldn't stop looking at her- she was so calm and collected and so incredibly well dressed. And her husband was so solicitous! He plumped a pillow up for her back, made sure she was comfortable and that her feet were placed up. He supported her if she needed to get up or change position. They held hands all the time, it was all very touching. She was also at the most advanced stage of pregnancy compared to the rest of us- in her 36th week. Come to think of it, she'd probably have her baby before the classes ended, since this is a 4 week course. I came to learn later that this was the first baby that was biologically their own, they had adopted one 15 months ago. Needless to say, my fascination with her only grew after knowing this.
Anyway, my hunger, tiredness, the fact that I was all alone, made me almost teary for a while. In the booklet I'd mentioned above, were pictures of couples practicing different labor postures. I fervently hoped we wouldn't get to that stage in the first class itself- whom would I practice with? Who would give me support? The wall? Initially, I was annoyed at Ram and my mom. Why weren't they here? But then, my annoyance got transferred to heartless residency programs who wouldn't allow their poor residents to spend time with their wives and with the weather, that wouldn't allow my mom to comfortably leave the house when she wanted to.
I didn't want the class to think that I was a single mother with absolutely no one to support her. During the initial introductions, I said, "My husband couldn't be here with me, since he's a resident on call, right here at Magee actually" - a lie, since he was actually at Children's Hospital ER, but I couldn't help myself. I wanted them to think that he was familiar with all this childbirth business, and that should he have some time free, he would instantly be able to come to me. Then, when the spotlight shifted from me, I felt bad about my lies- why begin something on a deceptive note? What kind of things would my kid learn if his mom couldn't stop making up things and announcing them to the world?
To make matters worse, I'd also mentioned to the class (because the instructor asked us to), that we hadn't yet decided on a name and were still arguing about it. To which, the instructor said, "Oh, I see, you don't discuss or debate, but you ARGUE". Which, of course, put a different take on the whole thing- a nasty take.
So I was pretty unhappy the first hour of the class.
The class itself was okay, though. Most of this first session was just talking- what we ought to think about while preparing a birth plan (epidural, other medications, liberty to eat or drink during the labor, liberty to walk or change positions during the contractions and so on). Then, about preterm labor, actual labor and false contractions. All sorts of things about where the baby's head is at different stages of the labor process, why contractions hurt so much and what happens when the water breaks. Things that are good to know, because then you can picture in your head the processes going on within you when the pain starts and then you are not quite so scared or stressed out.
Phew! Long-winded post.
There I was, hanging about in lab yesterday, playing Minesweeper and browsing the net without a care in the world. I'd typed in "Post Doctoral Careers" in Pubmed to see what I'd come up with (a more amusing pastime than one might imagine, Pubmed having the worst search engine in the world) and among the results that came up were "First time childbirth experiences in and out of the hospital: a case study in Australia". How could I ignore something like that? I clicked on the link, opened the report and saw something about midwives and home deliveries and breathing exercises and it struck me with a flash that I'd recently paid a lot of money for learning how to breathe. Shoot! Had that thing already started? Could I get a refund if the classes were already over?
I googled Magee Women's, got hold of their phone number and called. After umpteen transfers and many hours of holding, I got hold of a woman who seemed to know what I was asking about. "Which class did I sign up for, again? When did it start?", I enquired. I was in luck. The first class of the Prepared Childbirth series was that very evening, from 7 to 9pm. "Excellent. I was just checking", I said, as though I had known about this all along. Five minutes later, I called the woman back and asked, "So, what exactly am I supposed to bring to this class? Do I need any special clothes?" She didn't know. She thought I'd probably require comfortable clothes.
By 5pm, I was done with work, bored, hungry and cold (like all buildings in America, in my building too, the heaters are kept at full blast, and the air conditioners switch on automatically, so that each room is either too hot or too cold). I thought I'd get to the hospital by 6:30, grab a bite to eat at the hospital cafeteria before heading to the class. The weather had other plans. It was snowing and blustery outside and a thin sheet of ice had formed on the sidewalks, so that walking was difficult. I slid and skid my way to the bus stop, realized that all the available buses had just passed by and that it was too cold to hang about waiting, and walked on to the hospital. It took me a good 20 minutes more than anticipated to get there, what with the waddling and skidding and I regretfully dismissed the idea of getting food first and made my way to the class.
"No support person"? asked the woman there, as she took in my bedraggled state. "Nope, just me", I said and walked in.
Soon, the other members of the class began walking in- always in pairs. I pretended to be engrossed in a booklet that the instructor had kept for the students (though, soon enough, there was no pretense required- that book had some pretty detailed info about why I had the various aches and pains that I did. Made me feel much less of a hypochondriac). Anyway, by about quarter past 7, the class was full and I took a good look at my classmates.
Firstly, the demographics: Most were women in their mid twenties to mid thirties, like me. Two were teenagers- definitely not older than 18 or 19 years.
All the twenty-thirty year old women (excluding me) had brought their husbands along. The two teenage girls came with their mothers.
Directly opposite me was a woman who was just downright beautiful. She had a such a maternal look on her face, I instantly named her Madonna- not the Kaballah lady, the Renaissance one. I couldn't stop looking at her- she was so calm and collected and so incredibly well dressed. And her husband was so solicitous! He plumped a pillow up for her back, made sure she was comfortable and that her feet were placed up. He supported her if she needed to get up or change position. They held hands all the time, it was all very touching. She was also at the most advanced stage of pregnancy compared to the rest of us- in her 36th week. Come to think of it, she'd probably have her baby before the classes ended, since this is a 4 week course. I came to learn later that this was the first baby that was biologically their own, they had adopted one 15 months ago. Needless to say, my fascination with her only grew after knowing this.
Anyway, my hunger, tiredness, the fact that I was all alone, made me almost teary for a while. In the booklet I'd mentioned above, were pictures of couples practicing different labor postures. I fervently hoped we wouldn't get to that stage in the first class itself- whom would I practice with? Who would give me support? The wall? Initially, I was annoyed at Ram and my mom. Why weren't they here? But then, my annoyance got transferred to heartless residency programs who wouldn't allow their poor residents to spend time with their wives and with the weather, that wouldn't allow my mom to comfortably leave the house when she wanted to.
I didn't want the class to think that I was a single mother with absolutely no one to support her. During the initial introductions, I said, "My husband couldn't be here with me, since he's a resident on call, right here at Magee actually" - a lie, since he was actually at Children's Hospital ER, but I couldn't help myself. I wanted them to think that he was familiar with all this childbirth business, and that should he have some time free, he would instantly be able to come to me. Then, when the spotlight shifted from me, I felt bad about my lies- why begin something on a deceptive note? What kind of things would my kid learn if his mom couldn't stop making up things and announcing them to the world?
To make matters worse, I'd also mentioned to the class (because the instructor asked us to), that we hadn't yet decided on a name and were still arguing about it. To which, the instructor said, "Oh, I see, you don't discuss or debate, but you ARGUE". Which, of course, put a different take on the whole thing- a nasty take.
So I was pretty unhappy the first hour of the class.
The class itself was okay, though. Most of this first session was just talking- what we ought to think about while preparing a birth plan (epidural, other medications, liberty to eat or drink during the labor, liberty to walk or change positions during the contractions and so on). Then, about preterm labor, actual labor and false contractions. All sorts of things about where the baby's head is at different stages of the labor process, why contractions hurt so much and what happens when the water breaks. Things that are good to know, because then you can picture in your head the processes going on within you when the pain starts and then you are not quite so scared or stressed out.
Phew! Long-winded post.
Monday, February 15, 2010
Bt crops- vague thoughts
I haven't had a chance to think deeply about GM crops or GM microbes and their effects on economy and environment. But I came across this note written by Jairam Ramesh, the Minister of Environment and Forests in India, in The Hindu: http://beta.thehindu.com/news/national/article103839.ece
and was struck by many things: the transparency of the process, the chance for all stakeholders to participate in the decision making process, and the detailed communications that Ramesh seems to have had with many scientists and policy makers all over the world and the very pertinent points brought forth by various people- for and against the Bt strain of GM brinjal.
Many similar points had been brought up about a decade ago in the debate about Bt cotton (Bt stands for Bacillus thuringenesis.... had learned that up for quiz competitions in school and feel proud that I still remember it!)- that particular genetic modification reduces the need for chemical pesticides on cotton plants. Permission for commercial cultivation of Bt cotton was given about 6-7 years ago and Bt cotton apparently is the crop of choice in Maharashtra and Gujarat, among other states, nowadays.
Many people from India moan that nothing is transparent, everything is corruptible and corrupted and the politicians hog all the money- a complaint that never grows old and which I recall people saying even a quarter century ago (this puts me in mind of something from Bill Bryson's Shakesphere: John Stow in his "Survey of London", published in the 1500s, complains that the traffic in the city had grown impossible and the young never walked). Regardless of the pessimistic attitudes taken by these people, I still feel such a sense of optimism and pride when I read reports like this in the newspaper. We have definitely come a long way in improving transparency of the policy making process in India.
My first responses to Bt-brinjal are of instant rejection. We have the ability to produce food enough for all our teeming masses. Our problems with starvation comes from a lack of infrastructure in storage and fair distribution. Producing more brinjal may put us among the top producers and exporters in the world, but it won't solve the starvation problem within India.
Also, homegrown technologies in non pesticide management are slowly gaining the capacity not just to reduce use of chemical pesticides, but to do away with pesticides altogether. Surely more encouragement ought to be given to these industries?
What rankles me most about huge corporations like Monsanto is their insistence that every farmer keep buying seeds from them every year to sow. It is the most unfair thing I've ever heard of and goes against every grain of decency. I would love to stick my nose up at these buggers and say, get lost, just to deny them those extra billion dollars... but then again, I am not an impoverished farmer trying to grow brinjal.
and was struck by many things: the transparency of the process, the chance for all stakeholders to participate in the decision making process, and the detailed communications that Ramesh seems to have had with many scientists and policy makers all over the world and the very pertinent points brought forth by various people- for and against the Bt strain of GM brinjal.
Many similar points had been brought up about a decade ago in the debate about Bt cotton (Bt stands for Bacillus thuringenesis.... had learned that up for quiz competitions in school and feel proud that I still remember it!)- that particular genetic modification reduces the need for chemical pesticides on cotton plants. Permission for commercial cultivation of Bt cotton was given about 6-7 years ago and Bt cotton apparently is the crop of choice in Maharashtra and Gujarat, among other states, nowadays.
Many people from India moan that nothing is transparent, everything is corruptible and corrupted and the politicians hog all the money- a complaint that never grows old and which I recall people saying even a quarter century ago (this puts me in mind of something from Bill Bryson's Shakesphere: John Stow in his "Survey of London", published in the 1500s, complains that the traffic in the city had grown impossible and the young never walked). Regardless of the pessimistic attitudes taken by these people, I still feel such a sense of optimism and pride when I read reports like this in the newspaper. We have definitely come a long way in improving transparency of the policy making process in India.
My first responses to Bt-brinjal are of instant rejection. We have the ability to produce food enough for all our teeming masses. Our problems with starvation comes from a lack of infrastructure in storage and fair distribution. Producing more brinjal may put us among the top producers and exporters in the world, but it won't solve the starvation problem within India.
Also, homegrown technologies in non pesticide management are slowly gaining the capacity not just to reduce use of chemical pesticides, but to do away with pesticides altogether. Surely more encouragement ought to be given to these industries?
What rankles me most about huge corporations like Monsanto is their insistence that every farmer keep buying seeds from them every year to sow. It is the most unfair thing I've ever heard of and goes against every grain of decency. I would love to stick my nose up at these buggers and say, get lost, just to deny them those extra billion dollars... but then again, I am not an impoverished farmer trying to grow brinjal.
Monday, February 8, 2010
We are not amused
Two days after two feet of snow got dumped on our fair city, I can safely say that our city
a) is not so fair anymore and
b) has no idea how to get itself back together.
Apparently, richer suburbs (that pay 1% city tax) have gotten themselves a make over in the 48 hours that have elapsed since The Great Dump, whereas the neighborhoods in the city itself (that pay 3% city tax, ahem!) are reeling under piles and piles of dirty show, ice and slush.
Consider, if you will, the path from my apartment (well within city limits, 3% tax) to the bus stop. On Saturday evening and on Sunday, it was exciting to see that unending, undulating mound of pristine, glistening snow. My mom and I exclaimed, Antarctica is probably just like this! Since nobody bothered to shovel that snow away, a raggedy path has emerged from people flattening it out with their boots as they walked their dogs. So, not only has this path emerged, it has also been liberally decorated with the pee and poop of the afore-mentioned dogs.... this path is an uneven white-brown, with a border of gold and dark brown (are these dogs slightly dehydrated? Why is their pee so strikingly golden in color?)
Because of its origins, the path isn't straight: it veers gaily and drunkenly... wherever the dog led the master. When you are walking gingerly along it, you see a bend in the curve and adjust accordingly. However, these bends are also the spots where the canines decided to lift their legs. So you turn your body, try not to slip on the ice and at the same time, veer away from that disgusting yellow trickle on the side wall of snow. It is exhausting work.
Anyway, after 2 hours of availing myself of every mode of transportation available on the roads today (including, I might add, my butt, as I slid down a particularly icy downhill stretch), I reached lab, only to see that I was the only person in the whole building. Now I have sit here for another few hours, just to compensate for the time it took me to get here.
Humph.
In the meantime, Oakland, that haven of hospitals and schools, is in no better shape. How are people supposed to come to the Emergency rooms of Presby, Montefiore, Magee or Kauffman? What if my due date was this month, rather than 7 weeks from now? Where would my 3% have taken me, My Fair City? Probably straight into one of those snow banks with dog pee on them, that's where.
a) is not so fair anymore and
b) has no idea how to get itself back together.
Apparently, richer suburbs (that pay 1% city tax) have gotten themselves a make over in the 48 hours that have elapsed since The Great Dump, whereas the neighborhoods in the city itself (that pay 3% city tax, ahem!) are reeling under piles and piles of dirty show, ice and slush.
Consider, if you will, the path from my apartment (well within city limits, 3% tax) to the bus stop. On Saturday evening and on Sunday, it was exciting to see that unending, undulating mound of pristine, glistening snow. My mom and I exclaimed, Antarctica is probably just like this! Since nobody bothered to shovel that snow away, a raggedy path has emerged from people flattening it out with their boots as they walked their dogs. So, not only has this path emerged, it has also been liberally decorated with the pee and poop of the afore-mentioned dogs.... this path is an uneven white-brown, with a border of gold and dark brown (are these dogs slightly dehydrated? Why is their pee so strikingly golden in color?)
Because of its origins, the path isn't straight: it veers gaily and drunkenly... wherever the dog led the master. When you are walking gingerly along it, you see a bend in the curve and adjust accordingly. However, these bends are also the spots where the canines decided to lift their legs. So you turn your body, try not to slip on the ice and at the same time, veer away from that disgusting yellow trickle on the side wall of snow. It is exhausting work.
Anyway, after 2 hours of availing myself of every mode of transportation available on the roads today (including, I might add, my butt, as I slid down a particularly icy downhill stretch), I reached lab, only to see that I was the only person in the whole building. Now I have sit here for another few hours, just to compensate for the time it took me to get here.
Humph.
In the meantime, Oakland, that haven of hospitals and schools, is in no better shape. How are people supposed to come to the Emergency rooms of Presby, Montefiore, Magee or Kauffman? What if my due date was this month, rather than 7 weeks from now? Where would my 3% have taken me, My Fair City? Probably straight into one of those snow banks with dog pee on them, that's where.
Monday, February 1, 2010
My issue with tissue
There are many traumas an intrepid traveler faces after landing in the US from India.
Firstly, there's the problem of language- watching endless reruns of "Friends" sitting in your house, fanning away the mosquitoes, while eating sambar rice does NOT prepare you for the barrage of words that comes out of the big, black officer at the immigration counters at JFK. You can only stand there, mouth slightly agape, looking a bit goggle-eyed while he (or she) sighs in frustration at yet another uneducated, uncool, fresh-off-the-boat novice.
Next comes the total unfriendliness of the chaps loitering about the baggage claims area who refuse to help a lone woman out with her luggage. They lean back, hands in their pockets, with the look of men who are about to enjoy the spectacle of a small being wrestling heroically with a piece of luggage twice her weight, trying to get it on to the cart which refuses to cooperate. Mute appeals for help are met by blank stares.
You finally leave the area, pushing the cart ahead of you, catching your breath, and you come to the airport lobby where there are shops galore. You step into one of them and get the third jolt- the excessive friendliness of the American checkout girl. This friendliness is, of course, fake to some degree, but the trick is to learn to what degree. You can't respond to her with unabashed gratitude, then you'll be met with a freezing stare. You can't respond to her with a totally aloof look, a supercilious raised eyebrow, say. Then you're just being a bitch. You have to balance it out- learn to play it aloof, yet approachable. Friendly, but only to a certain degree. Warm, but with the definite possibility of cool.
But all these are very minor jolts, blemishes on your horizon that blow away as soon as you stop thinking about them. But the big jolt, the one that you don't think about at all, but makes your life a bit miserable every, single day is the toilet.
Public toilets in the airports of the East, whether in India or Dubai, are equipped with an invention which, in my mind, is the greatest one in the past century- the little butt-washer shower. This is a tiny little shower, which has a handle. When the handle is pressed, a stream of high pressure water comes out of the shower, which you then direct to the essential parts of your body after you do your deeds. With a little maneuvering, there is no excessive water spillage, no need to struggle with toilet papers, no need to keep flushing a thousand times to get rid of unseemly stains and best of all, a truly clean nether region.
No toilet- public or private- in the US has such a nifty system. You have to struggle with other people's spills on the seat, then with the toilet paper dispenser and then with cleaning your hands and if you're truly paranoid, viewing with suspicion other people's hands. If you leave any messes in the bowl, you either shrug and say, Eh, the cleaning lady will take care of it or you stand there and flush and re-flush till you feel you can leave with some dignity intact.
And even worse, the doors on these toilets don't close tightly (what IS with that?). Who the heck wants a little space between every single piece of metal making up the booth, such that everyone outside the booth can see (if they just stared a bit) all your trials and tribulations within it? Why can't people just make them like real rooms? No. Some of them go to the extent of placing couches with pretty cushions and intricately carved tables inside the restroom, outside the booths (in the off chance that someone may want to host a tea party in there) and then they make the booths such that the person inside can look outside through the spaces between the door and wall, and the people outside can catch glimpses of the bare bottom of the person inside.
You cringe in the beginning at this blatant lack of privacy, at this open show of non-hygienic cleaning. Then, you reconcile with the first, saying, ah well, it's not like I have anything that everybody else doesn't... so let them see me and I shall see them.
So, as with everything else in life, given a little time, you adjust.
But the cleaning of the tissue is the real traumatizing issue of all. Let me wring my hands together and say those supremely ineffectual words, "Something needs to be done about this!"
Firstly, there's the problem of language- watching endless reruns of "Friends" sitting in your house, fanning away the mosquitoes, while eating sambar rice does NOT prepare you for the barrage of words that comes out of the big, black officer at the immigration counters at JFK. You can only stand there, mouth slightly agape, looking a bit goggle-eyed while he (or she) sighs in frustration at yet another uneducated, uncool, fresh-off-the-boat novice.
Next comes the total unfriendliness of the chaps loitering about the baggage claims area who refuse to help a lone woman out with her luggage. They lean back, hands in their pockets, with the look of men who are about to enjoy the spectacle of a small being wrestling heroically with a piece of luggage twice her weight, trying to get it on to the cart which refuses to cooperate. Mute appeals for help are met by blank stares.
You finally leave the area, pushing the cart ahead of you, catching your breath, and you come to the airport lobby where there are shops galore. You step into one of them and get the third jolt- the excessive friendliness of the American checkout girl. This friendliness is, of course, fake to some degree, but the trick is to learn to what degree. You can't respond to her with unabashed gratitude, then you'll be met with a freezing stare. You can't respond to her with a totally aloof look, a supercilious raised eyebrow, say. Then you're just being a bitch. You have to balance it out- learn to play it aloof, yet approachable. Friendly, but only to a certain degree. Warm, but with the definite possibility of cool.
But all these are very minor jolts, blemishes on your horizon that blow away as soon as you stop thinking about them. But the big jolt, the one that you don't think about at all, but makes your life a bit miserable every, single day is the toilet.
Public toilets in the airports of the East, whether in India or Dubai, are equipped with an invention which, in my mind, is the greatest one in the past century- the little butt-washer shower. This is a tiny little shower, which has a handle. When the handle is pressed, a stream of high pressure water comes out of the shower, which you then direct to the essential parts of your body after you do your deeds. With a little maneuvering, there is no excessive water spillage, no need to struggle with toilet papers, no need to keep flushing a thousand times to get rid of unseemly stains and best of all, a truly clean nether region.
No toilet- public or private- in the US has such a nifty system. You have to struggle with other people's spills on the seat, then with the toilet paper dispenser and then with cleaning your hands and if you're truly paranoid, viewing with suspicion other people's hands. If you leave any messes in the bowl, you either shrug and say, Eh, the cleaning lady will take care of it or you stand there and flush and re-flush till you feel you can leave with some dignity intact.
And even worse, the doors on these toilets don't close tightly (what IS with that?). Who the heck wants a little space between every single piece of metal making up the booth, such that everyone outside the booth can see (if they just stared a bit) all your trials and tribulations within it? Why can't people just make them like real rooms? No. Some of them go to the extent of placing couches with pretty cushions and intricately carved tables inside the restroom, outside the booths (in the off chance that someone may want to host a tea party in there) and then they make the booths such that the person inside can look outside through the spaces between the door and wall, and the people outside can catch glimpses of the bare bottom of the person inside.
You cringe in the beginning at this blatant lack of privacy, at this open show of non-hygienic cleaning. Then, you reconcile with the first, saying, ah well, it's not like I have anything that everybody else doesn't... so let them see me and I shall see them.
So, as with everything else in life, given a little time, you adjust.
But the cleaning of the tissue is the real traumatizing issue of all. Let me wring my hands together and say those supremely ineffectual words, "Something needs to be done about this!"
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)