I’m truly grateful that I rarely think about public restrooms . Unless I’m actually in a public restroom, I forget all about them. And I never feel anxious about people’s public restroom experiences. I’ve never woken up out of a sound sleep, sat up in bed and exclaimed, “Ye gads! What if a trans-woman has to go pee at the airport!” I’m very privileged.

In my house, every bathroom is transgender. We do not prohibit anyone from using our facilities. Thinking this was an important step toward eliminating discrimination, I booked a flight to Washington so I could tell Congress about it.

Then I remembered that transgender restrooms have been a feature in every house I’ve ever visited. I have one (1) friend who has a bathroom in his loft above the garage that contains only a sink and urinal. No toilet. Before he let me use it, I had to submit to a background check. He never speaks about it in public because if a member of the LGBTQ community or one of their many advocates ever learned of its existence the feeling of dehumanization would make them suicidal. He’s an older guy and not likely to change it now. The reasons he gives are “ladies never come up here” and “there’s no room for a commode”. He knows it doesn’t sound good to say the real reason, “I hate people who are different from me.”

Then I remembered that outhouses are transgender. Outhouses are a symbol of unity, inclusiveness, and equality. Regardless of gender, everyone has the same experience in an outhouse – panic and nausea. It doesn’t matter what your birth certificate says. In an outhouse, everyone is equally repulsed. There are no men or women in outhouses. We’re all just people, fearing infection, choking back vomit, wishing we didn’t need to breathe.

Then I remembered that, as far as I know, public restrooms are transgender. None of the time I’ve spent in “Men’s” bathrooms has been committed to verifying the gender of the other occupants. In fact, I work very hard to keep my eyes from even glancing left, right, or (worst of all) down. I fix my gaze on the wall while walking directly toward an open stall or urinal. I have no idea who else is in there with me. It could be a man, a woman, or a centaur. It wouldn’t change my standard operating procedure. I’m not in there to make friends.

Then I remembered that people who don’t believe in God are unhappy, selfish creatures. Since they don’t feel loved and accepted, they make big deals out of silly things so other people will pay attention to them. They don’t care what’s true. They are driven by their ever changing whims. They are controlled by emotion.

So I say, let them use any bathroom they like. Then stop talking about them. They’ll start whining about something else. They can’t stand it when they aren’t the topic of conversation. I’ll just ignore them. I’m already doing that.