“I was brought up to respect my elders, so now I don’t have to respect anybody.” 
― George Burns (1896-1996).

As I think about it, I cannot recall entering a single bathroom – even the houses I lived in –  until a year ago. At 77, I have a new and close relationship with toilets and bathrooms; they are now something I notice, think about, or remember.

When I was a kid, cities had public toilets everywhere, and most shops and department stores were happy to offer clean and safe public facilities to shoppers, young or old. It was no big deal—it didn’t matter if you were 100.

Today, I try to remember every bathroom or toilet I use anywhere – I know I will need it again, and I need to remember where it is and wonder if there is toilet paper or soap (often not).  I know one older shopkeeper in my village, and he is what I call “toilet” sensitive. Forget the kids in the fancy shops or downtown stories. You can roll over on the floor and die before you can get into a clean bathroom. The local food pantry where I volunteer will let any older person come in and use the toilet, even if they are last in line.

My grandmother understood this well before her time. “Don’t drink any water today,” she told me in a whisper on movie days, “you might have to go to the bathroom.” The idea of her precious grandson going alone to the bathroom was much like my walking into a dangerous bar with Irish or Christian people or fallen Jews drinking on a weeknight. Don’t ask; don’t do it.

I’m no different from any other human. Things change, and when they do, very little attention is paid to people my age. That’s the way it is. Our position in society is the same year after year: we are the Invisible Generation, not to be seen or discussed but kept out of sight. No sane city would offer a public toilet today; bathrooms are treated about as respectfully as stolen uranium. The first thing I see in almost any store I enter is no “public bathrooms.”

Another way of saying we don’t care much about older people when traveling and peeing is that you are all alone. Some people I know carry their urinals when they travel in cars.

I’m glad my grandmother never had to go to the bathroom at one of those convenience stores along any Highway you can name or any gas station on a highway. A movie bathroom is much more dangerous for older people than a convenience store. I recently asked one gas station owner how often he cleaned his bathroom. “I hired a cousin to do it once a month,” he said. Yes, I thought, this was the truth.

Mainly, the social and political position on bathrooms and the elderly is simple: never mention them ever or for any reason. Have you ever heard any mayor or politician address the issue?

We are on our own when it comes to getting older. My brother, who rarely gave good advice, told me once when I was a teenager that I “ought always to have a condom ready.” I never imagined I would always have to have a toilet nearby. I need one today, a lot more than I ever needed a condom back then.

I find dignity and pride essential. As I age, it’s all up to me. No one in my world except Big Pharma pays attention to my sensitiveness. If no one else will, I will eagerly and proudly do it.

I love Maya Angelou’s idea about getting older:  ‘”I will only ask one favor. Please don’t bring me a rocking chair.'”

And I will mention another: Please don’t bring me a Diaper.

Bathrooms are important to me these days. When I enter a restaurant, a friend’s house, or go food shopping, I activate my bathroom spotter, like a Drone from the CIA. I don’t care where they hide it; I know where it is and where I will find it. There is no App for this (yet). I’m teaching myself to listen to the sounds.

I can hear a toilet flushing from a restaurant or Walmart, from the parking lot a half mile away, or in the hallway of a friend’s house.

Companies have their ways of hiding toilets from older adults like me when they have no choice but to have one.

They are in the farthest corner of the smallest room, with the tiniest sign. I expect to get lost or disoriented as I walk through the mile-long aisles.

When I went into a superstore recently, I looked for a security guard at the entrance, not because I was afraid but because I needed to know where the invisible bathroom was so I could get started and make it in time. Spending money is a snap compared to finding a bathroom.

I was joking with one Walmart security guard and asked him why bathrooms were treated like toilet facilities for the homeless or mass murderers. He smiled and shrugged. No way was he going there. But I was, and I set off on this arduous journey.

When I visit friends and am greeted at the door, my host usually shakes my hand and welcomes me. I shake their hand and say, “Can I ask where the toilet is? Thanks for inviting us.” I go there to get it over with, sit down, return inside to get my drink, crackers, and cheese, and eat. Still, I make a note of where the bathroom is.  I am a scholar of bathroom location. I will probably be back before I go. I pay close attention to bathrooms, studying the paintings on the walls, if any, and comparing toilet paper.

I’m getting used to discussing things that were once unthinkable (sorry, grandma). I’m serious about not buying those diapers. Growing older is challenging in many ways, but I refuse to complain or whine about it. Getting old is what I make of it, just like anything else, and Old Talk, the demeaning ways older adults are led to describe their lives, is not in my vocabulary.

No one I encounter seems to know older people have some bathroom issues. I’m getting used to telling them.

Besides, fewer and fewer friends are around to whine about getting older. There is a message there.

I don’t need diapers,  So I will share a secret I am loath to even talk about:

Urinals: They are neat and accessible, easy-to-use portable urinals for men and women. When writing on a long or unique piece or studying my flower photos, I have just launched a new system to save time and avoid distractions or accidents: I get a urinal and keep it in my study.

If I must go suddenly, I will use the urinal and continue my work—no rushing, panicking, or leaking. This works great for me, but I plan to learn a new way of thinking. Then, things will be under control, and there will be no rush to the bathroom or crisis. I never thought much about body control and bathrooms, but I’m paying attention.

I never, in a million years, thought I would discuss this publicly, but it feels surprisingly good. I’ll be careful about it.

Aging brings new challenges, which I must meet with acceptance, honesty, and humility. There is no shame in aging, only in hiding or running from it. I have a new relationship with bathrooms now, and my toilet is in great shape if needed. I am a bathroom student now; I know all about them, down to the flushing sound. When the time comes for me to buy a new toilet, I will be more than ready.

You said you admired me for sharing; my column will be as honest as I can to make it, and there are plenty of boundaries, too.

No matter how sincere I want to be about aging, there are plenty of things I won’t ever talk about.

I love writing this column; there is so much to write about.