Driving back from Nashville last weekend, we stopped for gas at one of those big truck stops on the interstate. A "travel plaza" they call it these days.

After pumping the gas, I decide to go to the men’s room. I knew I was taking a chance. Sometimes restrooms along the interstate are clean. Sometimes they resemble a toxic waste dump.

But this place was unlike any truck stop restroom I’ve ever seen. It was spacious and well kept. There were floral arrangements on the tile counters between the sinks. A bowl of potpourri sat on a table in the corner.

I don’t really know what potpourri is, but I think it’s supposed to make a room smell good, so having it in a truck stop men’s room is probably a good thing.

When I got back to the car, I told my buddy about the restroom.

"Sounds like they had everything but an attendant," he said.

They didn’t, thank goodness. I’ve never really understood the concept of a restroom attendant.

I’m not the smartest guy in the world, nor am I the most talented. But I’m pretty sure I can handle any task required of me in the men’s room without any assistance whatsoever.

The attendants are there, ostensibly, to help keep the restroom clean and to hand you a fresh towel once you have taken care of nature’s call and washed your hands.

But I can operate a paper-towel dispenser with ease, and I even know how to operate those electric hand dryers without anyone’s help.

Fortunately, I don’t encounter men’s room attendants very often, usually just when I go to one of those fancy, high-faluting restaurants in Atlanta.

But that may be changing. According to recent stories in both The New York Times and The Boston Globe, men’s room attendants are becoming more popular in midscale restaurants and bars.

So we may be seeing them more often. Aside from the obvious awkwardness of having someone standing there while you tend to whatever it is you went in there to tend to, there’s the question of tipping.

It’s not that I begrudge the attendant a couple of bucks. He’s got to make a living like the rest of us. But I believe in my heart that it is the right of every American to go to the bathroom without having to dig into your wallet.

In fact, I think that very right was going to be enumerated in the Bill of Rights until Ben Franklin, a notorious stickler for details, convinced the other Founding Fathers that it made more sense to have just 10 amendments, not 11, in the Bill of Rights.

"Otherwise, one day David Letterman will be doing Top 11 lists," Ben said.

So it was either the "go to the bathroom for free" amendment or the "illegal search and seizure" amendment that had to go, and since ol’ Ben had been stopped several times by the police in Philadelphia, you know which one won out.

At least that’s how I remember it from high school American history.

Still, I always feel like I’m supposed to tip the attendant for handing me a towel. Giving him the change out of my pocket makes me look cheap, so I usually give him a dollar.

I remember going to a black-tie affair once in Macon where there was an attendant in the restroom. I had already been to the restroom once and tipped him a buck.

But this was one of those affairs where they served adult beverages, and if you have a couple of adult beverages, usually nature calls again. It happened to me.

I wondered, "Do I have to tip him again?" If I give him another dollar, I’ve now paid him more for two towels than it would cost me to buy a whole roll.

Fortunately, a line had formed around the attendant. So I quickly washed my hands and slunk out of the restroom.

Oh, I dried my hands on my pants.