They come in waves.
Some come by themselves. Most travel in packs of two or three.
Walking in, the women’s various perfumes mingle with the subtle but distinct scent of bathroom cleaner mixed with fruity air freshener.
The Upstairs Pub women’s bathroom is small — only three stalls wide. Every time the door swings open the women look. Who’s coming in next?
They come to pee or to check their makeup in the mirror or to find sanctuary from the side-glances of men in the bar. Some just look for a moment to escape the music and chatter from outside, now muffled by the bathroom door.
Under the influence of vodka and rum cocktails, strangers become friends for a few minutes.
Women in town for their 20th college reunion come to the bathroom followed by current IU seniors. Strangers separated by 20 years of kids, marriages, jobs and life experience hug as they wait in line together and use stalls side by side. The 42-year-old offers the 22-year-old advice. The 22-year-old, in return, boosts her newfound friend’s confidence.
“Keep it up, whatever you’re doing,” the 22-year-old says. “That skin care routine is paying off.”
Women pop their heads in and shout out their friend’s name.
“Lexie? Are you in here?”
No luck. Maybe she's at the bar.
The white walls in the bathroom display years of writing. Messages from alumnae urge students to enjoy their time in Bloomington. Phone numbers. Drawings. Birthday messages. Words encouraging solidarity against men and words encouraging promiscuity.
They write messages in pen, pencil and marker. Nothing to write with? Lipstick.
Shades of red and pink sloppily cover the walls.
Some women come and go without a word. Some stay for seven minutes, reading the messages on the walls. There's a running list of dog names on the back of the stall door.
"Gouda," one of the newest additions reads.
The introduction of the bodysuit as a common fashion choice among young women changed the women’s bathroom scene. The suits come in different styles. Some slip on like a one-piece bathing suit. Others clasp at the bottom like infant onesies.
The middle stall door flies open as a woman steps out, skirt hiked up as she reaches for the clasps on her onesie.
“I can’t get it buttoned.”
As the room erupts with laughter from the woman's friends, a stranger steps forward to help.
“You are a real friend,” one of the women says, pulling out her phone and opening it to Instagram. “What’s your name? I’m gonna follow you.”
As the night continues, old drinks are abandoned on the ledge behind the toilets, ice melting into vodka. Hair ties and toilet paper and cocktail straws litter the floor.
A crying woman coming into the ladies' room signals it’s time to rally for a fallen sister.
It’s about a boy. It’s almost always about a boy. The woman's friend holds her face as she cries. She tells the woman she’s hot, smart, hard-working and deserves better. A stranger approaches, echoes all the same sentiments and hugs her new crying friend.
“I don’t know you, but you deserve nothing but the fucking best,” the stranger says.
