Auto paper towel dispensers hardly progress

If you believe all the hype, the world is full of technological advancement.

I remain suspicious.

Don't get me wrong; Lord certainly knows I am all for anything which makes it possible for me to exert myself even less. This is because I'm not really a fan of anything involving "effort."

Which is probably why I view restroom automatic paper towel dispensers as though they sit at the heart of a massive conspiracy to plunge our contemporary nation back into the Dark Ages.

On the surface, they appear to be an advancement of sanitary wonder. No longer do we have to lower ourselves to touch tainted levers or switches after no doubt washing our hands clean. Nor do we have to press an unclean silver button before removing all the sink water from our precious hands.

A thought: We're so worried about these people who don't wash their hands spreading their disease throughout polite society. But if they're so lackadaisical about washing, why would they be using paper towels in the first place, unless they're just doing it for spite? The lever or wheel might actually be the cleanest spot in the whole facility, certainly cleaner than the door, which remains bacteriologists' Holy Grail of objects to tackle when nature calls.

But when I'm washing up and obeying all the rules, ensuring my hands are so clean I could eat food with them or hold hands with someone, I find the automatic dispenser to be a witness to me at my silliest, on an occasion when I should be my most refined.

I hold my hands up to the sensor in the dispenser. Nothing registers. I wiggle my fingers, wondering if the dispenser is like a Tyrannosaurus Rex in "Jurassic Park," requiring movement before it will release the papery treasure within. Still nothing.

By this point, my hands are almost dry, rendering the newfangled gadget almost obsolete. But now, it's personal. I shall not leave the restroom without a scrap of paper to show for my troubles. I will not.

I will display it triumphantly as I walk about the party I just took a momentary respite from. People will stop, stare and whisper, and not just about the piece of toilet paper stuck to the heel of my shoe.

"Look at him," they will whisper. "Obviously, there goes a handsome gentleman who takes hygiene very seriously. See, he's still drying his hands off. Oh, and now he's thrown it in a waste receptacle. I don't know why more pretty girls won't give him the time of day."

Sigh. Neither do I, fellow partygoers. Neither do I.

Oh wait. We have movement. Somehow, in the midst of my flapping my arms as though they are eagle wings, the dispenser has become alerted to the fact someone stands before it.

With a whir and a click, a small square of paper descends.

I stop. I stare at it. For a moment, I could almost cry. These are the tiny moments of triumph which make getting out of bed every morning almost seem worth it …

But wait. I could probably stand to use a larger square.

I hold my hands up to the sensor in the dispenser. Nothing registers.

And we begin the dance all over again.

Matthew Weaver is the business and agriculture reporter for the Columbia Basin Herald. Sometimes he pretends to be a T-Rex when consuming his breakfast cereal. (It's true. - Editor)