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| Definite gaps in the paper goods aisle |
As someone who has dealt with Obsessive Compulsive
Disorder his whole life (which includes therapy and medication), as well as
being someone who, years ago, was occasionally accused of being a hipster (I
wasn’t, the jeans were too skinny for me), I was using hand sanitizer way
before it was cool. Now, it’s like my favorite obscure band has gone
mainstream, and I have to wait in line and pay more for concert tickets in
order to stand next to some kid wearing the band shirt, but can still only name
the hit single.
It was almost two weeks ago when I called my wife and
asked her if she could pick up a refill jug of hand sanitizer, as we had run
out earlier that day (my wife shares some of my obsessive compulsive tendencies
along with a nice dose of hypochondria). She told that our local drugstore was
cleaned out. I told her that it was fine. I was recovering from a relapse of
the flu, and felt well enough to return the next day, and thus would be heading
into town (i.e. Manhattan) and I would check the stores there. No luck.
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| My own brand |
Still, I understand, given the rapid spread of the Coronavirus,
and the conflicting information thereof. I would never dismiss people’s fears
or their very reasonable impulses to be more cautious. Now I find myself doing
what an increasing number of people are doing, making homemade concoctions with
rubbing alcohol (or Everclear, as even rubbing alcohol has become scarce),
aloe, and essential oils. It’s a little runnier, but actually it’s been quite
nice on my hands, and the smell of the lavender is quite enchanting.
Then I heard about the run on toilet paper.
Yes, I previously stated that I believed myself to be
ahead of the curve when it comes to hand sanitizer. On the other hand, though I
have been doing it since shortly after birth, I have never considered myself to
be on the avant-garde of defecation. To put it succinctly, I didn’t invent
shit. So while I imagine that the scarcity of Purell can be partly blamed on a
rush of new consumers, I simply do not believe the same can be said for toilet
paper.
Or maybe I’m wrong. These are strange times and it takes
more and more to surprise me. All of sudden this bizarre image comes to mind of
a confused individual contemplating hygiene for the first time in years
thinking: “Okay, they say that I need to wash my hands frequently and for at
least twenty seconds. I read somewhere on Facebook that if you recite Lady
Macbeth’s ‘Out, out damn spot’ speech in your head while lathering (of course
not forgetting to scrub underneath the fingernails) that is just the right
amount of time… Which one of my friends is such a theater geek that they
remember that thing, and assumed that I would too? And… Oh my God, what is this
putrid thing coming out of the hole underneath me. Nothing has ever come out of
there before! That hole was for prostate massage only! I must get to Duane
Reade quickly to get copious amounts of that “toilet tissue” that I have seen
people buy, but never knew for myself its usefulness. I am so new to this, I
don’t know what to get. Extra soft, or extra strong? Will there be someone
there who can help me with that? And will I still be able to massage my
prostate?”
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| Good Movie. If you're stuck in quarantine, you should check it out. |
And so on and so on. In my reverie, the inner monologue
of this fictitious character eventually touches on the subjects of cybernetics,
free jazz, Milky Way bars, and culminates in the sudden realization that the
classic Rick Moranis / Dave Thomas movie Strange
Brew was, in fact, based on Hamlet (“How had I not figured that out sooner?”).
Again, perhaps I should not make fun. We are still
talking about basic human needs and fears. The bread aisle was empty yesterday
as well, and I found nothing funny about that. Sure, there was the one guy who
looked at me and said “This is just like a movie.”
And I suppose it is. There is something extremely unreal
about all of this, particularly to those of us who have grown up in a place
where every basic need could be found within walking distance in a ginormous,
fluorescently lit, super modern mercantile. Hell, living in New York, I get
pissed off if anything stupid little thing is somehow inaccessible at 3:30 in
the morning. I know that I am spoiled in this capacity, even by American
standards.
All of a sudden, we living here in what so many call the
greatest city in the world (and not without a decent argument), find that for
the first time in generations, even the relatively well-to-do are now worried
about pestilence and scarcity. (Not the rich. I’m sure they’re doing just
fucking fine.) There’s nothing funny about that. The reason no one can find
hand sanitizer or toilet paper in New York is because people are scared of this
thing they can’t see, and are being told that all they can do is wash their hands.
And that makes us shit our pants.
