It’s a wonderful age of technology that we live in. I can find a different version of towel dispensers and hand dryers in every restroom across the nation.
The old-fashioned metal box screwed to the wall, sometimes stuffed with paper towels. The box with the blue towel that revolves around a cardboard cylinder and is supposed to convince me I get a fresh section with just one tug. The box that reveals a jagged edge of a paper towel, so that if I pull just right I may get the whole towel but I usually manage to snag only a corner of it.
The blow dryers with the huge button I hit with my elbow for sanitary purposes. The automatic blow dryers that blast almost warm air as long as I stand in the right position. The overly motorized automatic blow dryers that reveal how the skin will flap around on my hands when I am 154 years old.
But my favorite is the box that automatically spits the next paper towel out at me while I’m still using the first.
“Why, thank you,” I murmured to the generous dispenser, accepting the offering. “How thoughtful.” And it automatically presented the next towel. And I automatically took it.
Then by the fourth towel, I realized I had to stop because the dispenser wasn’t gonna.
Returning to our table from the restroom of a local restaurant, I explained the difficulty of walking away from proffered towels. My husband ignored me. Younger rolled his eyes at me.
Fifteen minutes later, returning from his own trip to the restroom, Younger slid into his chair, murmuring, “It is hard.”
It’s nice to know my genes will continue.