Myth #8: The Pumpin’ is Easy
This afternoon, upon leaving my office
to make a quick trip to the bathroom, I spot from afar the man who
cleans the restrooms. Hovering impatiently outside the door, he mutters,
“there’s someone in there for a long time…” and then trails off as if
to imply I might as well go ahead and keep him waiting, too.
Once inside, I get it. Instantly.
An extension cord is plugged into an outlet by the sinks and stretched taut across the room, where it disappears up into the first stall. At the same time, the unmistakable sound of breast pump wheezing fills the air.
I can also see the black, peep toe pumps—and the fact that the mama who owns them is likely perched on the toilet (with no lid) collecting milk for a baby that is somewhere else.
So wrong.
You would think that in a fancy pants office building like mine—complete with art gallery in the lobby—someone could spare a damn broom closet with an outlet and a folding chair.
On October 12, 2011
