Like child who needs to make sure its mother is watching before leaping off the diving board, or a needy pet that cannot complete a meal without you right there, administering pats and encouraging words, our toilet insists on having its handle held for the entire duration of its business. Unless you stand there, fully engaged, until the very end of its spiraling finale, it simply gives up in a discouraged, burbling sulk, too anemic and insecure to go the full distance on its own.

It means standing there for maybe thirty seconds, but it feels like a small infinity. Unlike almost every other moment in my day, that long, quiet moment with the toilet simply does not lend itself to multitasking. I can do nothing but the one simple act I am doing: dutifully standing there, face robot-empty, as I think on the elasticity of time; what bra to wear; how far I can stretch the truth of my taxes; the dire need to moisturize; whether or not my life is as and where it should be; vitamins, vitamins vitamins; and far-fetched, vaguely disquieting analogies of our toilet as a performance-anxious being in search of love, support, and a little ever-loving recognition.