A rose isn't always a rose

It took almost eight weeks, but I finally snapped.

Don't get me wrong, I've been quarantined with maybe one of the most affable humans ever created.  She would make Melanie Hamilton look like a shrew.  And the friends who know us will tell you without hesitation, I would be the one who eventually caved in to the pressure of these difficult days. It being my nature and all.   But I'll tell you right now, I'm not ashamed and I'm not apologizing.  No way.

I'll keep the backstory brief.  My wife and I have been ordering our groceries on-line from Walmart for the duration of our sheltering-in period.  Easy process, pick a day and time, order much more food and other junk than you need or could ever eat in three pandemics, and go pick it up.  You pull into a designated slot in the parking lot and someone wheels out a dolly with all your provisions and loads them into your vehicle.  The only issue you might encounter is that sometimes an item is out of stock or an item is substituted.  It is the latter of these two that led me to come unglued.

My wife was doing Armageddon inventory control last week and announced, with some trepidation, that we were down to 48 rolls of toilet paper.  I had discovered weeks before that she wasn't interested in the proper manners and protocol around toilet paper purchases, such instruction just causing her to stare more intently into the screen of her smartphone.  Likewise, my math and science detailing the half-life of a mega roll of bathroom tissue, with my certainty that we had enough for the two of us to manage until Christmas, had no impact on her and her wishes.  So, like any good husband, I added it to the list, 98% certain that like all the other times, it would be out of stock.

The appointed time came and the deliverer rumbled out with a loaded dolly and announced that the only item out of stock was the asparagus and the only substitution was the toilet paper.  I tried to question the nice lady as to the differences between what we ordered and what we received, but was silenced by a sharp look from my wife.  Not a problem.  The question answered itself when we got home.

Think about this:  you're ready for a new dog in your life and you decide you want a German Shepherd.  A big, beautiful sleek hero of a canine, one that will carry his own weight and bring you years of loyalty and companionship.  You spend weeks waiting for the blessed day to arrive, you are giddy as you drive to the Humane Shelter, and when you get there, instead of this fine, noble German Shepherd, they bring a yipping, squirming little chihuahua to the car.  (Listen, no insult intended for you chihuahua lovers, I'm just trying to create a reasonable analogy here.)  And you spend the entire drive home wondering how in the world you are going to adjust your dream to this reality, and when you get there, you discover the chihuahua has peed all over the back of your SUV and his incessant whining causes your hearing aids to feedback.

Well, picture my dismay when I unload the groceries and I find our "substitution."  First of all, my original order was for twelve rolls of Charmin, the version that's the size of a temporary spare.  The paper that you need a pulley and fulcrum to yank off the roller.  You know the ones I mean, I'm sure you've had sheets separate on you from the weight of that monster roll more times than not.  And, in the new math of the toilet paper industry, those twelve rolls are equivalent to forty-eight "regular" rolls.  So what do I find?  Twelve beautiful, hefty, substantial rolls of my name brand choice?  Nope.  Not nearly.  Instead, scattered through the back of our vehicle are forty-eight pitiful, scrawny, single rolls of a generic bathroom tissue with the consistency of pond scum.  Twelve four-packs of imposters.  I proudly bring my discovery to the attention of my smug wife, who takes one look at it and says, "It's fine.  I'll use it."

Fine?  Really?  You have forty-eight rolls of something just slightly thicker than a hot July breeze and you're okay with it?  "Well," I say.  "I'm not."  And I proceed to tell her right there in the driveway why I wasn't okay with trying to find a spot somewhere in our house for forty-eight rolls of something that has the gall to call itself toilet paper, or bathroom tissue, or whatever sham of a name it was going by.  That it was an insult to all of the legitimate rolls of toilet paper and to the entire woodsy heritage of the toilet paper industry.  How this crap was going back to Walmart so fast its cardboard tube would spin.  Oh, man, let me tell you.  I wore my indignation like a crown! I preened and crowed and puffed up large!

"Well," she said, snatching up a 4-roll package, "I'm keeping this much of it.  I'll use it and you can take the rest back."

I was shocked.  A compromise, huh?  For the ninety-eight cents plus tax cost of one four pack, we could both get some level of satisfaction out of this uncomfortable situation.  And I have to admit that I was beginning to feel a little uncomfortable with myself.  In fact, I wondered if maybe this was an early sign of starting to slip over the edge.  So, tightening my mental hinges, I headed back to Walmart with the imposter paper.  When I got there, I called inside and let them know I had an exchange.  A lady came out and started loading the reprobate tissue into a cart.

"Sorry for the trouble," I mumbled.  "I just didn't think it would work out."

In the rearview mirror, I saw a big smile come on the lady's face, and I watched it until the gate closed her from my view.   She knew, I thought.  She knew!  I wasn't being petty or difficult, after all.  No matter what my wife thought, this nice Walmart lady knew I was right.  Everybody probably returned that awful stuff.  I felt light and strong at the same time. All of my doubts had been cleanly wiped away.  I nodded at those wise eyes that stared back at me in the mirror, put my car in reverse, and, a freshly redeemed man, I drove home.