Public restrooms are an interesting place, not that I care to spend that much time there. But as I age, I find that biology has a way of placing me there for extended periods on a regular basis. There’s something to be thankful for in that.
Before my Clie days, it would give me time to ponder on the minutiae of my existence. Deep questions, such as, “Should the toilet paper roll out over the top or from below?”, or “How did they get that on there, anyway?”, or “If someone is on his cell phone, is it impolite for me to flush?” (this last one I resolved by determining that if he [it’s always a “he” for some reason] feels that his conversation is public enough for a restroom, then he shouldn’t be embarrassed by any ambient noises; I flush with impugnity).
The first two perplexed my for years. When I discovered how to change the rolls in restroom of my workplace, I would often change it to my preferred arrangement: over the top. It made sense to me: the soft, quilted design is embossed so that it shows when the paper rolls from the top, not the bottom. For years, I felt that was all the explanation that I needed. Recently, I discovered differently.
A week ago I was doing a search on “paper” to find a graphic for a flyer for Judy. Among all of the photos of paper of different sizes, textures, and grades was the following illustration.
I was intrigued. Someone actually took the time not only to look into the mechanics of toilet paper roll placement, he also made a graphic to illustrate the tearing action and result! In fact, there is a complete article on it, including a second illustration, at http://www.treehugger.com/files/2008/07/green_your_toil.php. I can’t vouch for the site, but I don’t want to neglect citing my source.
Believe it or not, this wasn’t my discovery. It happened while I was at work, in the restroom (to clarify, the restroom was at work; I wasn’t working in the restroom). Where I work, the toilet paper rolls don’t have a tube in the middle. Instead, the roll is tightly wound all the way from the center. That means, by the time the roll is down to the last few feet, the roll resembles a fat, squiggly white worm shedding its skin. Obviously, by the time it gets to that point, nobody wants to handle it, let alone spend the time unraveling it. The other day as I entered the stall I found one of those remnants dangling disrespectfully, albeit artfully, from the handicap support bar. But I digress.
The toilet paper holder has a nub on each side that extend about 1/4 inch into the center of the roll. It’s loose enough that the roll turns when pulled without breaking the paper prematurely. Overall, it puts more paper on the roll so it doesn’t need to be changed as often. It works until the roll devolves to the “worm phase,” when it falls off and either gets desparately unraveled or disposed of. Ingenious, really. I like ingenious.
Well, on this particular day, the roll was not quite at worm stage. Unfortunately, it was positioned for the below-the-roll delivery. I didn’t attempt to correct it because for this particular system removing the roll can be difficult. Besides, I’ve matured past that stage. In fact I thought nothing of it until it was time to leave. My first pull proved that the roll was a bit stiff in its holder. On the second, harder pull, the roll jumped from the holder and fell to the floor. Now, because it was unrolling from the bottom, the roll was spinning so that when it hit the floor it would continue rolling, or unrolling, in the direction of the holder, which was placed on the divider between the two stalls. Its velocity took it underneath the divider to a stop mid stall, between the feet of my neighbor. It sat there, a paper trail flowing behind it, much like a snail’s trail but with not so much mucous.
So what do you do in that situation? I waited. My schooling didn’t cover this. But I had to say something.
“Do you need any toilet paper?” I offered.
Pause.
“No, I’m good.”
I thought of trying to retrieve the roll, but was afraid that with each tug on the tail, the roll would unwind and roll further into my companion’s stall.
“Sorry about that.” I offered in my most conciliatory tone.
Pause.
“No worries.”
I finished what I was doing and left him to take care of my stray roll, trusting that if I said no more that I might retain what precarious anonymity a bathroom stall ensures. What else could I do? But now I have my justification. It goes beyond aesthetics. It goes beyond saving paper. It’s about saving face.
