The One With the Toilet Seat

 

Over the years, I’ve put on many, many a few pounds. I’ve been making an effort to walk most days after work and I’ve been making healthier diet choices. I’m down 10 pounds which is just sand off the beach at this point, but still a step in the right direction.

Then yesterday, I sat down to pee and heard a crack. I broke the toilet seat. Go me.

I don’t know what kind of weight limit toilet seats have, but apparently I exceeded it. There is nothing like starting the day knowing that your fat ass just broke a 2-inch thick piece of enameled wood.

After work I ran to Menards to get a new seat. As I walked in the door, it occurred to me that I’ve been to this particular Menards twice before. Both times were for toilet seats. Now, in fairness, they weren't all for me. The first time I got a toilet seat there was because the hinges broke on my mom's toilet so I got her a replacement. The replacement wasn’t up to her standards because it didn’t have the “slow-close” feature. I didn't even know this was a thing. For 56 years I've been simply lowering the lid of my toilet seat like a loser. I wasn't aware that I could've been just dropping, nay, slamming the seat and instead of crashing down, it would've slowly closed on its own. Who knew? My upstairs neighbors certainly don't know about this technology. They also don't know how to manually lower the seat either because I hear it slam and my cats jump every time they take a dump use the facilities. What kind of message do you think it would it send if I bought them a "slow-close" seat, wrapped it in a big red ribbon, and left it by their apartment door? Christmas is right around the corner afterall . . .

But I digress. The second time I went to Menards it was to exchange seats.

Now, once inside the doors of Menards there’s a turnstile to continue into the store. After breaking my toilet seat, I was absurdly concerned about trying to walk through without getting slapped on the butt by the metal arm, or even worse, getting stuck in it. Horrifying thoughts of the 911 call that would be made on my behalf barreled through my brain. Or maybe they wouldn’t have to call 911. I mean, they surely stocked some sort of tool that could cut through the metal, freeing my overly large posterior, right? I could just imagine the voice over the PA. "Ah, we're going to need a hacksaw by the entrance. On second thought, maybe an angle grinder. Or a bandsaw. Whatever you think can free this fat lady who got stuck in the turnstile." People would come from every direction, like K-Mart shoppers to the blue light special, to gape at the spectacle. On the way, they'd stop by the checkouts to grab little packs of Cheez-Its and turkey jerky to munch while watching in fascinated horror.

Being well-acquainted with the toilet section, I made a beeline to the aisle, grabbed a seat, and headed to the check-outs. While standing in line, I low-key freaked out that the cashier would somehow have a record of all my previous purchases, and she’d look at me the only way someone can look a person buying their third toilet seat in less than a year.

The cashier didn’t put the seat in a bag, but there was a convenient handle on the packaging so I grabbed it and walked to my car. Only I couldn’t remember where I parked because that’s the stage of life I’m in now. I wandered up and down the aisles, carrying my toilet for all to see. I’m sure no one was looking and no one cared that I was carrying a toilet seat on a tour of the Menards parking lot, but in my mind, I was strutting around, holding my toilet seat aloft like a boxing ring girl with a “Round 3” sign, and everyone was gaping at the chick whose fat ass broke a toilet.

I finally found my car. Right where I parked it.

When I got home, I attempted to unscrew the old seat, but no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t budge it. I grabbed a pair of pliers, got a good grip and threw my weight into it (which in hindsight was not the best plan as it was my weight that got me in this mess to begin with.) I broke the tab off the bolt. After 5 minutes of wrestling with the stupid bolts (that are of course, in a most convenient place UNDER the toilet bowl which, in my case, is wedged between the tub and the wall), I gave up, and in true Gen X fashion, resigned myself to an eternity of getting my ass cheek pinched in the broken seat.

Thankfully, Brooklyn got home and took pity on me. She figured out that we did not actually have to remove the bolts from under the toilet. All she had to do was turn the hinge covers to where it literally read “unlock” and the seat popped off. She saved my extraordinarily large ass. Literally.