In the gray days of January, I can't help but slip into a slight funk, my lazy emo kid mood, if you will. I start contemplating cyclical problems of the universe, like "If it's yellow, let it mellow...but for how long, exactly?" The unanswerable questions of life.
As a kid educated in Los Angeles County public schools, I was an early conservationist. In fact, I learned to spell the word and digest its meaning in fourth grade. Water conservation was paramount in L.A. County which, though a seaside town, is in fact a desert. (For an entertaining look at L.A.'s seemingly perpetual Water Problem, watch Chinatown. Also, just watch Chinatown.)
So here we are, on the couch in January, rain dampening the four o'clock hour that feels more like 8, and I'm reminiscing about the days of yore and pondering things that will lead me on the road to nowhere.
What if you let a yellow mellow, but then you leave the house unexpectedly for a few hours? What if all you have for the whole afternoon are yellows? Similarly, how many yellows should be left to mellow before we get to the equivalent of a brown? (In case you were unaware, the second—and more manageable—half of that little aphorism is "If it's brown, flush it down.")
Beyond the philosophical or theoretical implications, you then have to worry about surprise visitors or the landscaper who needs a loo. The last thing a modest person wants is some poor guest lifting the lid to find someone else's yellow mellowing in there. I mean, right?
This is why I have a toilet phobia. There's just so much to lose, and be judged for.