I put it on my r‚sum‚, you know. It’s not mentioned on the cover letter, but it’s still earned its place on the page, in 10-point Arial, nestled between “Work Experience” and “Honors and Awards,” as I’ve found it’s still a mighty fine accomplishment.

It glows: “Overcame fear of public restrooms.”

The selling point fills me with a sense of pride. It’s true – since coming to college, I’ve done away with my once-debilitating fear of public restrooms.

The fear started early, though I feel this was a good time, as it sent the clear message to my bladder and bowels that they’d be exercised only in the privacy of my home or under extreme circumstances.

I’ve learned the rules of public restrooms now, and I feel the best way to help others who still suffer from my former phobia is to educate them about the secret workings of restrooms.

There are features in place now designed to prevent us from ever having to touch anything in restrooms. Toilets flush automatically (for who has the time to flush any more?); faucets work on their own (though some require a magical trick of the hands to trigger); hand dryers or paper-towel dispensers are linked to motion detectors (though they’re often empty or broken). The only trick now is to wait for somebody to enter or exit, catch the door with a foot or long stick and make your escape.

Still, there exists a strict system of etiquette in restrooms that all must adhere to. I learned most of these rules during my first semester in Larch Hall, a building which is as attractive as the name “Larch” suggests. It is, for example, wholly acceptable to be nude and soapy with only a four-foot piece of flimsy plastic to separate one from the world. Not acceptable at all, however, is flushing.

It is passable to spend the night on the tile floor in a blanket of your own vomit and a stranger’s urine (or vice versa, of course), but not to leave a stall without clearly marking that you have been there.

Speaking, I must point out, is forbidden in all restrooms, and for good reason. Let it stand as a general rule that if ever you are in the process of ejecting a fluid from your body, you must not engage in dialogue, unless you find the ejection in question pleasurable, in which case muttering “I love you,” “Of course I know your name” and other such lies is completely OK.

Speaking in public restrooms, however, is altogether different. Though we may be sharing a public space, we’re all having very private – albeit common – experiences. As in other situations which find me with my groin area exposed, I’m not at all in the mood to engage in idle chitchat.

Asking others to ignore convention and ignite conversation while in the restroom is rude – more taboo, even, than moving a passed-out drunk from the stall he has claimed. Though I’ve spent enough time on campus to become familiar with the many restrooms, it must still not be classified as an area in which I’m going to hang about and chat.

Note, also, that though the restroom is sometimes labeled as the “lounge,” this does not mean it’s OK to spend a great deal of time hanging about in them with a copy of “War and Peace.” You’re there to do a deed, not sit about and read – a maxim we can apply even to home restrooms.

Observing the bathrooms on campus makes one wonder about their designs. Newer buildings feature the ever-important slabs of plastic between urinals, without which I question my humanity as I urinate into a hole in the wall while shoulder-to-shoulder with others. I prefer to wait for any available stall, though those sometimes, too, backfire, such as one in the Memorial Union which has a door that swings open violently at critical moments, requiring its user to engage in a deft combination of gymnastic movements in order to keep a sense of privacy.

Worst of all public restrooms is the one in Hamilton Hall. Cruel was its designer, who placed a urinal directly in front of the door, and also chose a model which extends a full two feet from the wall.

Even if others can avoid viewing your most private of members on their way in, they’ll have to stray their eyes yet again if they opt to wash their hands. This is the only time I’ve ever found it fortunate that a majority of guys do not deem hand-washing a worthy practice.

My fear, though now subsided, is obviously not ungrounded.

Horrible things happen in public restrooms, despite the best efforts of science to prevent us from having any more contact with the germs and creatures within them.

Perhaps being able to use public restrooms isn’t the bragging right I envisioned at all but an admittance that I’ve borne witness to the horrors.

Cavan Reagan is a senior in journalism and mass communication and English from Bellevue, Neb. He is the student life editor of the Daily.