The Unwritten Rules of Truck Stop Bathrooms.

When you're trucking across the country, the first thing you look for at a truck stop is the bathroom. But as any traveler knows, public restrooms have a secret code of etiquette. Ladies, we all know the rules—the ones no one teaches us, but we follow like gospel.

Rule #1: The Long-Distance Stall Strategy.

If you have to do more than a quick tinkle, you go to the very last stall.

As if distance alone can hide noise, shame, or… aroma.

Rule #2: The Pre-Surgical Seat Scrub.

Once inside, you scrub the seat like you’re prepping for surgery.

Antibacterial wipe, elbow grease, the whole ritual.

So there I was — fifteen empty stalls to choose from — and out of pure habit I marched straight to the end stall.

Just in case.

You know… noise. Smell. Humanity.

I’m sitting there, panties around my ankles, when suddenly the stall door next to me SLAMS.

Now we’re both trapped in the same silent standoff — two grown women, terrified to make a sound.

I still had to pee.

She clearly did too.

I flushed early to cover the noise, and the second the water roared, she let loose like a racehorse trying to beat the clock before my toilet stopped gurgling.

And then there’s the most sacred rule of all:

Rule #3: The Wait It Out Fart Protocol.

If a fart escapes, the fartee cannot leave until the other woman is gone.

If you cause any smell, you must be the very last person to exit the bathroom — and you must do it quickly, before anyone can associate the scent with your face.

Just pray it’s not a busy day.

Meanwhile, while women are in the bathroom conducting covert operations — flushing strategically, timing our exits, praying no one walks in — men are living in an entirely different universe.

Men do not care.

If they fart loud and proud, it becomes a contest.

I’m convinced it’s a sport.

Van once came out of the men’s room shaking his head laughing, and I knew I was about to hear something good.

He says, “Two little boys were on either side of me. 

The one on the left lets one rip. and says, "Match that."

The one on the right answers back, louder and prouder. "Match that."

Then the kid on the left fires off a long and loud one and says, ‘Match that.’”

So Van — being Van — really lets one loose.

Long. Loud. The kind that turns the air green.

(I added that part. I’ve smelled enough of his to know.)

The little boy on the right doesn’t even flinch.

He just says, “Match that,” and claims it.

Men’s bathrooms are not bathrooms.

They are training grounds.