Public restrooms and single-ply

There are few places in modern society that unite humanity quite like the public restroom, even if it keeps us apart by metal walls and doors. It is the great equalizer. CEOs, ranch hands, tourists and that guy sporting a shirt that reads “Kid Guitar” and has the long greasy hair and a beard down to his knees who definitely ignored the “Out of Order” sign all walk through the same door with the same basic goal and varying degrees of optimism, at least I hope so.

Public restrooms, in theory, are a triumph of civilization. 

Running water — AMAZING! Indoor plumbing — OUTSTANDING! Doors that almost latch – (insert your own explicative). 

They promise relief, convenience and a brief pause from whatever chaos drove you there in the first place. In practice, however, they are a gamble — a roll of the dice where the stakes are high — sometimes very high.

Let’s begin with the pros.

First, availability. Public restrooms are scattered across this great land like little porcelain outposts of hope. Gas stations, grocery stores, county buildings, the occasional blue plastic building of disgust (if no one is looking)—each one a beacon when you’ve had just a little too much coffee or a sketchy bean burrito on a long Wyoming drive. When you need one, nothing else will do. Not fresh air, not positive thinking and certainly not another mile down the road. When that urge becomes an absolute necessity to do the pee-pee dance, nothing else will do.

Second, anonymity. There is a certain comfort in knowing that whatever happens in there — whatever noises, miscalculations or life decisions — will likely never be traced to you. You enter as a stranger and leave as a mystery. It’s the closest most of us will ever get to living a double life.

Now, the cons.

Cleanliness is a moving target. Some public restrooms are pristine, clearly maintained by someone who takes personal pride in the sparkle of a sink. Of course, I’ve only heard about those ones. In my life cycle, they don’t actually exist. Others look like they lost a bar fight. There is no middle ground. You either walk into a place that smells faintly of lemon and dignity – or one that makes you reconsider your life choices up to that exact moment. But look on the bright side. You get a chance to catch up on your prayer life! “Father in heaven, if you will only get me out of here alive, I promise I’ll ...”

Then, there’s the stall situation. Why are the gaps so wide? Why do the locks feel like they were installed during the Roosevelt administration? And I mean the first one. There is nothing quite like making eye contact with a stranger through a one-inch door gap to remind you that privacy is more a forgotten notion than a guarantee.

And hovering around all of this — sometimes literally — is the true star of the show: single-ply toilet paper.

Single-ply is not so much a product as it is a concept. An idea. A philosophical question about how little material can be used before it stops being effective entirely. It is thin enough to read through, which is impressive in a technical sense but deeply concerning in a practical one.

The primary advantage of single-ply is, of course, cost. Somewhere, in some office, there is a budget spreadsheet celebrating the decision to go with the thinnest possible option. That spreadsheet has never used the restroom in question and is printed on a sheet of paper approximately 1,000 times thicker than single-ply.

But, let’s look at one more benefit, … actually, no, … there is no other benefit. That’s pretty much it. It’s cheap.

On the downside, single-ply demands strategy. You don’t just unroll a bit and use it — you engineer a structure out of it for use. There’s folding involved, sometimes layering, occasionally a brief moment of prayer. It turns a simple task into something resembling a commercial construction project. You find yourself doing calculations: “If I fold this twice, will it hold? Should I go for three layers? Is that overkill, or is that just good planning?” But once you’ve poked a finger through single-ply in the very act of what it was made for, you realize that even three layers isn’t half enough.

And that is the most damming downside – the dreaded “mid-process failure,” a phrase that needs no further explanation but inspires immediate understanding — and perhaps a slight shudder and a memory of that Taco Bell meal you just had.

And yet, despite all of this, there is a strange resilience in the human spirit. We adapt. We persevere. We develop techniques and pass them down like family recipes. “Always check the stall before committing.” “Grab extra paper up front.” “Never trust a roll that looks too small.” “Remember to always pack a load of mace.”

Public restrooms and single-ply toilet paper are not perfect. They are, in many ways, deeply flawed systems held together by hope, habit and just enough plumbing to almost bypass our gag factor. But they get the job done — most of the time — and when they do, we are grateful.

Because, in the end, when the need arises, you’re not looking for luxury. You’re looking for a door that closes (mostly), a lock that holds (hopefully) and enough paper—however thin—to see you through (doubtfully).

And if you walk out of there with your dignity intact, well, that’s just a bonus, but it’s not a guarantee.

Now I could have gone down some really nasty roads with this story, and I was tempted to do so. But aren’t you thankful that I avoided the word S#!T?