The Old Coot steps into the arena

The battle of the sexes rages on. I’m old enough, but apparently not wise enough, to be an observer and not a participant. Every now and then, the Neanderthal part of my male brain wakes up and engages, not just my mouth, but in this case, my pen. So, here I go with a new salvo in this unending war. The issue – TISSUE BOXES!

The square ones with flowers and other pleasant scenery decorating the sides. A tissue peeks out of the top, ready to do your bidding. I reach over and give it a tug. Do I get a tissue? No! I get the whole box. I have to hold it with one hand and pull the tissue out with the other. What once was a one-hand job, now takes two, unless you’ve been to tissue school and learned the three-tug technique. My Neanderthal dominated brain can’t execute a three, gentle tug process. It’s too clumsy. It’s only capable of one big pull. 

I wish that were my only issue with the square, tissue dispenser. It’s not! The tissues aren’t lying flat like the ones in the” unfashionable” rectangular containers where you can pull out a tissue with one hand. The tissues in the square box are folded into a ball with a sub-par intertwining function. I describe it as wadded up mess. Sometimes, one tissue pops up; sometimes, you get a handful and sometimes, the tissue scheduled for duty goes AWOL and hides in the box. I suspect, but have never done the math, which the designer, square box has a lot less product than the rectangular box. Which, by the way, is getting harder and harder to find. 

I’m on the losing side of this war between men from Mars and women from Venus. The tissue box battle is yet another skirmish that went the other way. I lost the liquid soap dispenser versus bar soap war. I lost a sneak attack from pillows that invaded the war zone and took over the chairs, sofas and beds and must be removed if you want to sit or lay down. I lost the battle of a short, good-bye process when leaving a party or other gathering. I stand to the side like a four-year-old tugging at his mommy’s skirt, using ESP to beg, “Can we leave now?’ But the ESP doesn’t work; the process will take a minimum of five minutes. I still retain control of my “Archie Bunker” pillow-less chair. And, there I sit, a tired, battle worn veteran on the losing side in the battle of the sexes. Yet, I’m a happy guy – my Neanderthal infused brain is too dumb to know better. 

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