The Solo Performance No One Asked For

For the love of God and all that is holy, is there some secret global shortage of Softsoap? Are we monitoring suds like they’re enriched uranium now? I’m just trying to wash my hands, yet I’m being subjected to a level of usage control that would make a prison warden blush.

You’ve finished “doing the needful,” and let’s be clear, while poppy isn’t sloppy, a little post-game cleanup is mandatory. But instead of a simple pump, you have to engage in a frantic courtship ritual with a plastic sensor. I’m waving my hands under that nozzle like I’m directing a Boeing 747 into Terminal C, all for a single, pathetic drop of “ocean breeze” scented nothingness.

Stroke, Rinse, Repeat

If you’re lucky enough to coax a little lubricant, sorry, cleaning solution, out of the wall, the real fun begins. Now you need the water. It’s more frantic waving, followed by two quick rubs. (Look, “rubs” is the word; let’s sit with the discomfort together).

Then, the water cuts out. Apparently, one second of flow is the legal limit. So, it becomes a rhythmic cycle: wave, rub, wave, rub, until the job is finally finished. And yes, I am still talking about the sink, though the friction is starting to feel personal.

The Big Finish

Don’t even get me started on the paper towel dispenser. It doles out a strip so tiny it couldn’t dry a pinky finger. It requires pull after pull after pull. I realize the optics here are terrible, but I’m committed to the motion at this point.

By the time I finally “finish” with my hands, get your mind out of the gutter, I’m trying to be civil, I’m clean as a whistle. I’ve done my part to save the facility three cents and “conserve resources,” mostly by burning enough calories at the sink to justify a second lunch.

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