I remember being nine years old.

In those days, I went to a school called St. Clare. And by the age of nine, I knew every hallway like the back of my hand. I had mastered every water fountain. And yes, I had even caught a glimpse of the forbidden Teachers’ Lounge. Yes, I was the master of my domain.

Except for the girls’ bathroom.

Now, the girls’ bathroom was unique in that no one had any idea what really went on there. Everyone knew that the Teachers’ Lounge was where the teachers went to drink coffee and do other grown-up things, but the girls’ bathoom? No idea.

No boy had ever been inside, after all. Attempting to do so would result in a detention, or worse, cooties.

And you couldn’t trust a girl to give you any accurate information about the girls’ washroom either. Girls, being strange and evil creatures, were naturally inclined to lie and screech.

As a result, us boys had to use our superior skills of conjecture to predict what was in the girls’ bathroom. The consensus was that the girls’ bathroom was at least three times the size of the boys’ bathroom, and painted entirely in pink. They had couches and TVs in there, magazines to read, a lip gloss dispenser, and possibly a drink fountain. Girls spent their time here applying makeup, watching soap operas, and doing other girly things.

Our hypotheses were solid, but could not fully explain the mysteries of girls. The TVs certainly explained why it took the average girl five times as long to use the bathroom as the average boy, but we still had no explanation for why girls only ever went to the washroom in pairs. This mystery still plagues me to this day.


A couple of years later (I was eleven or so), I found myself in the school after-hours. I forget why I was there, but there I was. The school was quiet at this point – the only audible noise was that of the janitors cleaning floors in the distance. And before me was the girls’ bathroom.

Despite the fact that cootie theory had been debunked by this point, I still felt nervous. If I was caught, it would be one of the most embarrassing moments of my childhood. But I had to proceed. For all of boykind.

I pushed open the door.

I turned the corner.



Disappointment washed over me. There were no TVs. There were no couches. No lip gloss. No drink fountain. Not even a magazine! The room was slightly bigger than the boys’ bathroom, to be fair, but that was only due to the lack of urinals. I couldn’t believe that this was all there was to the best-kept secret of all time. I couldn’t even feel smug at having discovered that the girls’ bathroom was no better than our own, such was my disappointment. I turned around and left the bathroom, feeling utterly cheated.




Often when I write blogs like this, I have a point. A certain “moral of the story”, as it were.

Well to be honest, that’s not the case this time. There’s no lesson to be learned here. I just wanted to talk about that one time I went into the girls’ bathroom.

Good night!