Each day I take a deep breath and prepare for battle.
You see, in the loo at work is a paper towel dispenser.
It hates me.
You might think I am being paranoid, but I’m not.
It really hates me.
It has dedicated its existence to humiliating me on a daily basis.
Sometimes, it tucks up the towels so my dripping wet fingers can’t purchase and when they do, they tear away strips of paper leaving gouges up the towel and me wiping my hands on my jeans.
Sometimes, it’s positively champing at the bit to release its payload of paper towelling. A tiny tug and reams and reams and reams of paper cascade over me turning me into a bad imitation of King Tut.
And it’s not just that paper dispenser.
Sometimes the heat dryer ones taunt me too.
Especially the sensor operated ones.
I stand there waving my arms around trying to find the lucky spot and end up looking like a slightly demented windmill.
Of course, by that time my hands are dry anyway.
Going to the loo in a public place has become even more of a nightmare.
Now, I have to worry about more than just germs and bacteria, and include water taps that respond to voice commands, fancy schmanzy sinks that create a tsunami wave of epic proportions, and of course the drying ritual.
All of this makes the quick trip to spend a penny last at least 20 minutes, as I struggle to tame the latest in toilet tech.
It’s come to the point that the germs are less scary than the technology meant to protect me from the little boogers.
Time to bring out the disposable bottle of hand sanitizer and the wet wipes.