Toilet Paper

Everything was fine until double-roll toilet paper. Before the advent of mass toilet tissue marketing, drug stores were places of indifference and nonchalance: I could enter a Walgreen’s without cringing, and purchase everyday items (cigarettes, energy drinks, mascara, vitamins—staples when in pursuit of the American dream) without feeling hypocritical. Now, the toilet paper mascots of my childhood are pushing bigger, better, and bolder rolls. The gaseous cartoon bear is still making daily trips to the forest’s community toilet hole, but is armed with twice the toilet tissue for his (and I presume the next bear in line—one bear alone can not possibly use a double-roll) wiping pleasure. The group of pleasant elderly women is still working the days away, quilting millions upon millions of tiny-paper-pillows to bring the gift of soft, plush toilet paper to industrialized countries around the world. I am sure they are thrilled to have their workload doubled: the fine craft of toilet tissue quilting will be forever in debt to the Quilted Northern 3, inoculating them into the Quilter’s Hall of Fame for mastery in common reusable goods.

Certainly, the marketing department at Proctor and Gamble was tickled about the double roll idea at its dawn: it’s a time saver, a space saver, a money saver, and (to ice the cake) it helps the environment! The wonders of a forward-thinking company have yet again revolutionized a product that, one would think, was at its peak of performance. At the double roll’s drug store debut, an overwhelming sense of pride and joy must have overcome the slew of designers, advertisers, and marketers; they had put a new edge on toilet paper, and society will surely benefit from it. This is what I think about while I browse the aisles of the corner Longs.

I’m not sure why double roll toilet paper was the catalyst for my disdain for American consumer culture. There are so many products that could have done the same: toothbrushes with plaque-destroying bristles; super-strength multi-scented deodorant; sponges shaped like hearts and farm animals. All these products, along with millions of others, are more than qualified to bring any overly observant individual to their breaking point. Perhaps it was the simplicity—and necessity—(according to our societal definition of needs: I’m not sure where toilet paper lies on Maslow’s hierarchy) of toilet paper that made its makeover so disturbing.

For years, adjectives softer, smoother, sensual were used to describe the two-ply squares, and for years, this never bothered me. The majority of Americans often overlook words directed toward the senses, so I did not feel that Charmin or Scott had roped in buyers by tantalizing their vocabularies. Words that describe size and savings, however, are ear candy for any consumer. Saving a pocket of change and doubling the size trumps a soft, smooth, and sensual wiping. I suppose this puts to question our values as a society, and our purpose as a species: Are we forever doomed to wipe our asses with a never-ending roll of discomfort? Will humanity one day evolve to a people that appreciate a thicker paper over more of a thinner?

I think about this with my cigarettes, energy drinks, mascara, and vitamins in hand. As I pull closer to the register, I don’t know if I am aiding the toilet paper tycoons I despise by supporting an institution that carries their product. And, if I am, where would I go to in protest? I’m sure the Safeway or 7-11 down the way are carriers of the double-roll virus. Even Trader Joe’s and Whole Foods (elite grocery stores for those who bash consumer culture, only to be sucked into a black-hole of hypocrisy) have to subscribe to the tyranny of toilet paper marketing. As the overweight, soul-broken woman scans my purchases, I wonder how I could change consumer culture. If I turned to the line behind me, gave a venom-filled speech about the evils of double-roll toilet paper, and stormed out of the store, would it make a difference? The checker hands me a weighted bag with a balloon-like arm, and tells me to have a nice day. I leave, and continue to live the life I have been leading.