JulieBolejack

This may be the most universally shared American trauma no one is discussing. Somewhere between inflation, political collapse, and the price of eggs… lurks the public restroom toilet paper dispenser. A device clearly designed by a man who has never once needed toilet paper urgently.

There comes a point in life when a person realizes they can no longer trust society.

For some, it is politics.
For others, the stock market.
For me, it was a public restroom at a roadside fast food joint somewhere off I-70 where I nearly lost both my dignity and the top layer of skin on my left hand.

Friends, we need to talk about public restroom toilet paper dispensers.

Not the normal kind. Not the civilized home variety where the paper hangs freely like a soft little promise from heaven.

No.

I am referring to those industrial prison-grade plastic vaults mounted beside the toilet like government-issued punishment devices. The ones with two giant rolls of toilet paper buried inside them like archaeological artifacts from a failed civilization.

Every person over the age of forty knows exactly what I’m talking about.

You sit down.
You reach inside the dispenser.
And suddenly you are participating in an escape room challenge no one asked for.

Where is the beginning of the roll?
Nobody knows.

You start fumbling around in the darkness like a raccoon searching for scraps in a dumpster behind Applebee’s.

You spin the roll.
Nothing.

You spin the other roll.
Still nothing.

Finally—there! A tiny flap appears.

Hope rises.

You grab it carefully, like Indiana Jones trying to steal the golden idol without setting off the traps.

And what do you get?

Half an inch.

A sad little toilet paper tongue that snaps off immediately and disappears back into the machine like it owes you money.

Now you’re angry.

You go back in.

At this point your entire forearm has disappeared into the dispenser. You’re elbow-deep in what feels like a hostile Tupperware container while strangers outside the stall are beginning to wonder if you’ve fallen in.

You twirl the roll again.
You hunt.
You dig.
You negotiate with God.

Then suddenly—
SCRATCH.

Those jagged little plastic teeth slice across your knuckles like you’re escaping from Alcatraz.

Why are there teeth in there?

What are we doing as a nation?

We can land a rover on Mars, but Brenda from Indiana has to leave a public restroom looking like she fought a coyote just to get enough toilet paper to survive Chili’s fajita night.

And let us discuss the toilet paper itself.

That paper isn’t toilet paper.

That is receipt paper.

That is onion skin from a 1932 Bible.

That paper is so thin and fragile it disintegrates emotionally before it even reaches your hand.

One square of it couldn’t wipe a toddler’s nose, much less handle the full responsibilities expected of it by an American adult who has consumed Memorial Day potato salad and two hot dogs.

At some point during all this, someone jiggles the stall door.

Now the pressure is on.

People are lined up outside waiting.
You panic.
Your left hand is bleeding.
You still only have one-third of a square.

This is how civilizations collapse.

I have officially reached the age where I now carry my own emergency toilet paper supply. 

Not because I’m dramatic.
Because I’m experienced.

You know those people who survived the Great Depression and kept butter tubs full of buttons and twist ties?

That’s us now.

I’m one failed dispenser away from carrying Charmin in a holster like a Wild West sheriff.

And honestly? I regret nothing.

This country spends trillions of dollars every year.

TRILLIONS.

Yet somehow every public restroom still operates like we’re rationing toilet paper during the Dust Bowl.

Meanwhile the dispenser manufacturers continue creating these infernal plastic coffins designed specifically to destroy morale and exfoliate fingers.

Mark Twain once said, “Against the assault of laughter, nothing can stand.”

Clearly he had never met a public restroom toilet paper dispenser at Buc-ee’s on a holiday weekend.

Because that thing stands.
Forever.

Enjoy your weekend, I’ll be at the track. 

Julie Bolejack, MBA

The Mindful Activist

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