To counter @stanleybmanly‘s experience, one summer (1972, I think) I had the opportunity to work for the Worcester (Massachusetts) Parks Department between college semesters. A lot of the job included mowing and general grounds work, of course, but the most hated job – and therefore always mine, whenever we went park-to-park on initial cleanups, because I was “the kid” – was cleaning the rest rooms. Worst of all was that job on a Monday morning. And the absolute worst of the worst – at every park, and without exception – was cleaning the women’s rooms.
Men’s rooms were nasty enough, for reasons that men (and their wives and housekeepers) already know: bad aim and “directional carelessness”, diffusion of the stream (it’s simple fluid dynamics), and general apathy about leaving things in good order, since it’s not “their own space”. The men’s rooms were always “messy” and wet and randomly soiled in different and sometimes interesting ways. But the women’s! Oh, those women! It was as if they set out to deliberately trash the buildings. Every. Single. Time. I never understood it. We’re talking “monkey house antics” here. Never “interesting”, just horrible, disgusting, and apparently deliberate.
The only good thing about that job was that after I’d spend whatever time was needed in cleaning the rest rooms the crew I was with would give me a long, long break afterward to re-compose myself (and clean up).
After marriage, years later and in different parts of the country, I would only nod my head and comply when my wife and I would be out somewhere and she “had to go” ... which meant it was time to “go home” or to our hotel room, because she did not want to use a public women’s room for any reason. I got that.