I was taking care of business yesterday in the lavatory at a BJ’s in my hometown while my brother was buying his nutty, fruity, low-low-carbohydrate South Beach Diet bullshit. When my body had convinced me that said business had been completed, I turned around, arms akimbo, and began an adjudication of the results—a practice that is, at this point, a matter of ritual.

Don’t be horrified. Those who are in the know are in the know. A man, once in a while (every couple of days or multiple times in a given morning, depending on metabolism and other pertinent health factors), must allow himself a minute or two for some quiet fecal contemplation. It is a time of reflection, of introspection. It is a time of serenity, a time to willingly surrender oneself to the fate of one’s bowels. Bigger, shapelier harvests are desirable, while those that are smaller and fuzzier leave something to be desired. But a man must not lament the fruits of that which lies in close proximity to his loins. He may only blame himself—that is, his chosen fiber intake and his willingness to regularly elevate his heart rate. Saint Francis of Assisi once prayed, “Lord, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference.” The short meditative period in question, then, is a unique opportunity to exercise Francis’ philosophy: if one finds oneself dissatisfied in staring downward, boxer-briefs about the ankles, one must recognize that the cause of disappointment is unchangeable—a done deal. Yet one must also recognize that he or she, if courageous enough, has the power to improve for the future through a healthier sleep regiment. And also lots and lots of oatmeal.

So the post-BM contemplation is a valuable psychological tool; the logic being that the minor disappointments overcome by such a practice prepare a person for the real conflicts of life: those nasty break-ups, a death in the family, the unstoppable popularity of celebrity gossip in all its manifestations.

But there’s a stumbling-block before us nowadays (by ‘us’ I refer to those folks who, like me, cherish the occasional moment of thoughtful solitude) and it’s these motherfucking sensor-operated public toilets. I had seen the movie Ransom before I’d ever used the toilets at BJ’s. But it was only when I stood up after doing my business and the thing flushed automatically that I felt the movie Ransom. I empathized with the movie Ransom. I suffered along with Tom Mullen, the man who, despite his wealth and power, became helpless in the hands of his son’s kidnappers—because, like Mel Gibson’s character, I have been robbed of that which is important to me. The invention of the sensor-operated toilet is a sin; venial or mortal standing remains to be determined.

Or maybe this is all a simple overreaction; maybe I’m making a big stink over nothing, excuse the terminology. All I know is this. There was a pressurized rush of water and the stall suddenly appeared as it had when I’d first entered. My tenure in the BJ’s men’s room had been totally disregarded by a blinking motion sensor where the toilet’s lever might have been. I paused for a moment then began to make myself once again presentable for the marketplace. But lingering was the feeling that I’d misplaced something, something neither very valuable nor expendable, and as I pushed open the door I was overcome by a sudden and powerful anxiety that has only started to taper off in the last few hours or so.