In one of the classrooms where I teach English, a poster-size sign hangs from the window sill. On it are written behavioral guidelines for the fifth-grade pupils. It reminded me of my own grade school, where I remember having to write the Ten Commandments on large pieces of poster board. Below each commandment we had to draw a picture illustrating its meaning. As luck would have it, my group was given the tenth commandment, “Thou shalt not covet thy neighbor’s wife.” We looked at each other, stumped. It wasn’t for dewy-eyed purity that we spent several long minutes twirling our magic markers between our fingers without so much as a scribble on our poster board. I went to Catholic schools my entire childhood, so the thous and shalts and covets were already familiar to me. I was able to define adultery before I could spell it. But the irony that this particular forbidden apple of knowledge was given me not by TV or in pool halls, but in Catholic grade school, seemed lost on our teachers and parents. The problem my group had with our assigned commandment was how to depict it without landing us a year’s worth of detention. Inspiration came to me from the only source of creativity known to me at the time: Looney Tunes. The best doodler in our group drew the image as I described it: Bugs Bunny, in one of his many drag roles, is bathing on top of a roof as the lecherous wolf on a neighboring roof ogles the scene with saucer eyes bulging through a pair of binoculars. Our teacher was not amused. She accused us fifth-graders of immaturity and trivializing a serious issue. Lesson: In order to maintain their childlike innocence, eleven-year-olds need to address adultery with more gravitas.

There were no pictures to assist me in deciphering the guidelines that hung around the room of our English class last week. But there didn’t need to be. These rules were simple and written in a German anyone could understand - anyone who knows German, that is:

1. We will sit at our places 5 minutes before class begins.
2. We will get some fresh air during our breaks.
3. We will use an appropriate volume.
4. We will not beat each other up.

I guess coveting neighbors’ wives is okay here. Little devils.

In between English classes the other day, I started feeling the, uh, purgative effects of the three cups of coffee I’d had that morning. Not wanting to risk a mid-class catastrophe (but what better way to learn such phrases as “face as red as a beet” or “ran like a bat out of hell”?), I decided to pay a visit to the men’s room while it was still my choice. In previous years, the hygienic standard of the school bathrooms was low enough that waiting until I got home - or at least to the nearest tree - seemed worth the risk of having to abruptly flee the classroom. But over the summer, the facilities were fully renovated. Operational and clean now, they featured something new that, even in my urgency, gave me pause.

It was empty when I walked in, so I took a look around like Sundays in a museum. Fresh paint, shiny sinks, mirrors and tiles - even the urinals, adorned with mint (the condition, not the flavor), star-shaped cakes, had that unused look. But it was time to get down to business. I entered the first stall in the row. Immediately I noticed they hadn’t installed the toilet paper dispensers yet. There wasn’t even a stray roll on the floor. The same went for the other four stalls. I was glad I checked first - an instinct I’d developed from too many awkward moments over the years. But that still left me with a problem which was becoming more desperate by the minute. Before I was prepared to sacrifice yet another pair of perfectly good socks, however, I searched the area for a hidden stash of TP. As I passed into the sink area, I saw it: a single, solitary toilet paper dispenser hanging at the entrance to the bathroom stalls. At first I thought it was for paper towels, but a few telling white squares dangled from its mouth. My socks are saved! That relief, however, quickly dissolved when I grabbed the first sheet and prepared to pull. In that moment, between grabbing and pulling, I was struck with a question which, up until that point, had never occurred to me before.

How much toilet paper do I need?

Of course the easiest answer is just to take a bunch and go, and perhaps that would have solved my problem for now. But what if other people had been in there as well? What if someone had been drying his hands or popping black heads in the mirror next to me? How should I behave? I mean, was there some appropriate amount one should take? A prescribed etiquette governing the use of public TP dispensers? After all, the bathroom is not a rule-free zone. Like anywhere in society, there is an acceptable code of conduct. Think of the courtesy flush, for example. Or drying your hands before grabbing the door handle. Or, for you men, the delicate balance of arrangement when choosing a urinal. No mater where I go in the world, I know that if someone is standing at the left end of a row of urinals, I go to the far right - the fewer people there are relieving themselves, the more distance required from your neighbor. The Americans do it that way, the Germans do it that way, and I’d bet a lifetime supply of Depends that the North Koreans and Batswana do it that way too. But what about toilet paper? If I take too much, maybe I’d be branded inconsiderate or a tree killer. And if I underestimate? Shall I shuffle to the dispenser with trousers bunched about ankles for a reload? This seemed all too complicated to me. Normally I’d just use the stuff until I was finished, without giving it any thought. Now here I was trying to do some quick math: number of sheets = ^volume/_consistency x content. Somewhere my 7th grade math teacher was laughing. I could just picture it: I rush into the bathroom and, in front of a handful of nosy, dawdling hand washers and hair combers, perform some complex number crunching on my fingers while tightly crossing my legs.

These thoughts - not to mention my churning stomach - became too much to bear. My misgivings would have to wait for another time. Greedily I pulled the paper from the lone dispenser. And then I pulled a little more, just in case, reasoning there’s no better place than the bathroom to be anal.

Choose. But choose wisely.