disinfection disaffection

So I'm in a public restroom. I exit the stall and walk to the sink. Next to me is a woman who has just begun to wash her hands. And she is taking this whole hand washing thing to a prepping-for-surgery level. I try not to stare but she is lathering so...vigorously that I can't help myself. It's all I can do to hold back the burning question, "What the hell did you do in there to warrant such a scrubbing?" Here are some hypothetical explanations:

• Perhaps she was introduced to Mexican food last night for the very first time and the amount of toilet paper was inversely proportional to her digestive dilemma.
• Maybe her mother had told her that her "womanly fluids" would stain her skin and everyone would know that she had, in fact, had contact with her "secret place."
• Perhaps she's one of those fastidious little women who douche so much they smell like a Glade Plug-In.

Whatever it was, it made me want to run out and buy a vulva puppet to celebrate the Formula 409-free vaginas of the world and then go eat a big ol' plate of enchiladas with refried beans. That reminds me of a slang expression for a woman's happy place: taco. See, now we've come full-circle.