I was scrolling through my Facebook feed, minding everyone's business, when this drifted through:
Pardon my juvenile scrawl, but it should be obvious by now why I found it necessary to protect the guilty. My first reaction: stunned silence. Second reaction: what the what??? Part of me wanted to believe the poster coincidentally had run out of Charmin at the EXACT SAME TIME their drawer full of carefee, wanderlust-filled traveling socks chose to hit the road. But I knew in my heart this was not so.
Side note here: someone suggested this solution would be more trouble than it was worth to get the socks clean enough to use as proper socks again. Somehow I think this was a one-way trip for the doomed socks, so don't trouble yourselves too much coming up with extreme laundry solutions.
This TP incident got me thinking about life's necessities and what we do when they are not available. I tried to remember the last time I was out of TP, and couldn't remember EVER being out of TP. So I tried to imagine a scenario where, if I WERE out of TP, my thoughts would run to socks. Nope, never happen. Paper towels or tissues, maybe. Other less satisfactory paper products, possibly (apologies, Sports Illustrated!). But socks? For the love of all that is holy, when where and how did socks become a viable substitute for toilet paper???? I am eternally thankful I did not get the memo on that one.
Anyway, by this time I am into full-blown Historian Mode. I remember tales of outhouses long past, where corn cobs and Sears catalogs filled this particular need. Sweet Mother of Pearl have I mentioned lately how thankful I am for the American toilet tissue industry?? Imagining wiping with either of those two options has me willing to pay upwards of $20 a roll for my beloved dual-ply Charmin. Maybe $20 a sheet.
Prior to the invention of a product designed specifically for cleaning one's nether regions, history tells us folks grabbed whatever was locally available. Materials as disparate as leaves, wool, sand, snow, and pottery shards have been used. Some cultures went back to basics and used their left hands and their left hands ONLY, which is why eating with the left hand is still considered utterly repulsive and highly uncouth in some Middle Eastern cultures. Ancient cultures used rocks and shells, which may partially explain the bathroom joke from the 1993 Sylvester Stallone movie Demolition Man.
A little Googling tells us the first documented use of paper for bathroom hygiene purposes was in China. This is no surprise. China seems to be the leader in inventing such first world necessities such as gunpowder and fireworks, so why not TP? Writings from the 6th century A.D. describe sheets of toilet paper for the Emperor's use, measuring 2 feet by 3 feet. This odd size got me thinking: was this a typo? Did they mean 2 inches x 3 inches? Or did they have a piece of paper the size of a modern bath towel just lying about in the loo, waiting for the Emperor to do his business? Doesn't that seem overdoing it to you? Either he was a huge guy, or an average-size guy who made a huge mess. Did he use it once and wad it up and toss it? There was no flush toilet at that time, so it couldn't go down the tubes. And even if it could - 2 feet x 3 feet??? No, I suspect/fear this large sheet was intended for multiple uses. Sweet Mother of Pearl.
A little closer to home, you may have noticed plain white TP is the new world order. I vaguely recall solid colors being available back in the day. Apparently a combination of high price and low demand booted colorful TP from most American shelves. I did find a company in Serbia with the unfortunate tagline of 'Family Doo' that may still offer fun colors and patterns. Since I don't speak Serbian and Google Chrome did not offer to translate, I can't tell if they actually sell the patterns shown here, or just think it's a cute picture.
Soon after the Facebook Sock Debacle, I issued an edict here at home: no socks will be harmed, sullied, or otherwise sacrificed in the pursuit of my personal bathroom hygiene. There is now great joy in my sock drawer. But the magazine pile definitely has the jitters.
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