I’m very proud of my ability to change a roll of toilet paper. It’s a rare talent — no one else in my house has ever been able to master it, whereas I seem to have a natural aptitude for the task.
When my kids were little, the family conspired to support me. Knowing my knack for the job, they held back to allow me to shine. They denied themselves the satisfaction of replacing toilet paper on the spool. “Leave it for Mom,” I imagined them saying. “She’s awfully good at it, and it makes her feel useful and important.”
I’ve never been one to hog the spotlight. To give others a chance, I once stopped servicing the spindle for several weeks.
The family loyally continued to give me precedence. During that hiatus, loose rolls of Charmin perched on the sink, sat atop the toilet tank, or balanced precariously on the edge of the tub.
Having graciously given them all a chance to step into the limelight, I sat back down on the Roll Queen throne. I’ve been perfecting my technique ever since.
I fill supporting roles, too. Stockpiled rolls of toilet paper must somehow move from the garage to the bathroom. It is my pleasure to bear them thence. There is no dismay like empty spindle, empty cupboard dismay.
Imagine my delight, then, at finding the tableau above at the physical therapist’s office! Another chance to serve! Rather presumptuous of me to change that roll, though. What authority have I, outside my own realm? Do I dare to eat a peach?
I decided it was (yet another) character test from God. A roll of TP doesn’t weigh much in the scales of eternal justice, but it might be just enough to tip the balance.