I was on an airplane recently and all of the seats were filled, a profitable arrangement for the airline, but an overly cozy one for the passengers. It was while we were in this “cheek by jowl” condition that a man in a seat in front of me dipped his head into a wad of white cloth and produced a great and glorious nostril-honk, apparently free of any embarrassment or concern. I had some rude thoughts about that, which I will distill, here, to — “I would never do that.”
When I was a high school teenager, my brother and sister and I would have parties in the living room. The bathroom of our apartment shared a wall with that living room, and it was during one “break” from the party that I had a thought: “Can I be heard in the next room?” Thus began my concern about, and attempts to control, the natural noises that result from my body’s processing and elimination of food and waste. (I am trying to be as delicate as possible, here.) My “noise abatement” program was born on that fateful night.
Everyone knows the processes that occur behind restroom doors, so I will skip the steps and get to my drastic measures. One of my favorites is to pile toilet tissue onto the surface of the water. This cushion tends to muffle the “droodle droodle” sound produced by wastewater hitting fresh water from a distance. Another sound counter-measure is to start a strong stream of water running into the sink and eliminate under cover of that sound.
I use these sound-muffling measures when the restroom is close to an audience. There are a surprising number of powder rooms built close to kitchens. I know someone who has a restroom (a “bath” is possible only for an elf, curled into the sink basin) directly in the kitchen. In a recent visit to my friend’s new house, another guest was shown to the restroom, just off the kitchen and next to the “family” room. The two women smilingly discussed the possibility that the activity in the restroom would be audible to those in the kitchen. I chimed in with my tales of embarrassment and avoidance.
When my new physician was examining my belly, I said to her, “borborygmus.” She looked up, questioningly. I told her that I liked that word, which means “a rumbling or gurgling noise made by the movement of fluid and gas in the intestines.” I don’t remember how I came to know the word, but I have had associations with people who have instances of audible rumbling. When it has been determined that someone else heard the rumbling, the reactions range from loud acceptance — “Oh my! I must be hungry!” — to mute and stoic ignoring.
We are packing more people into smaller spaces and I’ve often thought, when looking at rows of cubicles, “whither goest the wind?” The sound and fury of close cohabitation is something that must be considered in our planning, but I wonder if this closeness makes us less wary of sharing the noise, as well as the space. My granddaughter, who is approaching 7 years of age, has no noise inhibitors and is unconcerned about the little explosions from her body. Her aunt, my youngest daughter, has an unrestrained approach to her eructations. Her belches are loud and forceful; there is no mute on her horn.
Not so, for me. I do not want to share, and I will blow my nose noiselessly, sneeze sneakily, deploy “silent but deadly” releases and keep my restroom activities a covert operation.