I love using paper towels. I feel like it’s the most baller thing I do. How decadent is it to get a clean opportunity to wipe away my dirty problems. But yet, I feel guilty with every towel I tear off that poofy roll. Yes, I buy recycled, and yes it is probably the repurposed juice pulp of a thousand Pepsi bottle caps, but I still feel guilty and joyous at the same time.
I try to be mindful of the environment and not use them often. Whenever possible I’ll recruit my sleeve. But sometimes, when I’m feeling saucy and rebellious, a little voice in my head hollers, “I worked hard today! I deserve to wipe things up with a clean paper square!”
When the voice does strike, I boldly tear that square off and parcel it into four pieces, because, it really does absorb a lot! But then when it’s been an especially difficult day filled with disappointment, missed opportunities, or an errant sneezing attack, I will use the whole piece to dry off a dish, wipe up a spill, or blot my steamy hands soiled with rejection and/or red sauce.
A psychologist friend of mine once pointed out to me I anthropomorphize everyday items. What’s that, you say? Well for example, take my lipstick. I feel badly about using one color more than another. Does violet feel left out? Or like the weird, “too zany” only-gets-worn-on-Halloween-color? Or I wonder, do my sneakers get sad when I stop wearing them because they smell like Limburger cheese?
I asked my professional pal, is my behavior troubling? Her response: absolutely. But as long as I don’t start arguing with my socks, I’ll be ok.
After that, I decided it was best not to tell her about my feelings for my shampoo.
Sometimes I get mad at pistachios because there are those rogue ones which don’t quite open enough. You know the ones you pry at repeatedly, only to break a nail and/or your tooth. I can’t help but feel resentful and I think, “Well that’s a waste of a nut!”
Do you think the opposite of the Jaws Of Death would be the Jazz Hands Of Life?
It’s 11: 44 and I’ve just finished a long night of rehearsing new music and I am exhausted, hungry and tired of worrying if my oldest pair of underwear knows that I appreciate it.
So, to quell my inner empath, I am eating a saucepan full of cereal called, “Living Well.” It’s a generic knock-off of the brand, “Life”. I cannot help but see the irony in both the name choice and the fact that I am eating an inappropriate amount of cereal at close to midnight. Which some might speculate is the opposite of living well.
What was the conversation in the boardroom when they were naming this cereal? Who were the Kroger specialists brainstorming this idea?
“Say, Harry, what are we going to name this one? It tastes like “Life” so…where do we go from here?”
“I don’t know Eileen, what are some synonyms for the word, “life”?
“No, that’s a soap.”
“Nope too medical.”
“That’s clearly a laxative.”
“Gary, what do you think?” Eileen asks as she fidgets with her pencil.
“Harry, Eileen, I love you, but you both are thinking like a couple of potato heads. We need to approach this from the point of affirmation. Get the consumers to feel like their lives are made better by our lightly sweetened wheat squares.”
Harry and Eileen nod their heads in true minion fashion.
“See, the trick is, make ‘em think they made the right choice. And while you’re at it, let’s throw some images of stalks of wheat and oats on the box. Pictures of vegetation always make you feel like you’re making a healthy choice.”
“But Gary,” Eileen sheepishly asks, “How does eating cereal mean you’re living well?”
Just then Gary takes Eileen in his arms and dips her like a tortilla chip in hummus.
“Eileen, that’s it! Living Well! That’s the magic name!”
Harry jumps to his feet and all three Kroger cereal, middle management executives high five.
“Put this one in the books, Harry!” Gary chuckles, “We’re changing lives bygod. We’re changing lives!”
Eileen, drunk on her own satisfaction bends over to grab the next cereal box and places it squarely on the table. The box has an image of tiny “O” shaped cereal bits.
“I know! I know!” Harry exclaims, “Let’s call them, ‘Little Assholes.”
*In case any of you are wondering, I call my photo, “The Evolution Of The Paper Towel”. You’re welcome.