Friday, February 3, 2012

I Hate You...I Love You

I Hate You...I Love You
Inner turmoil between a Hinter and his thoughts

I hate you...public bathroom Hand Dryer

I look at you with disgust. You represent all that is wrong with the world. I want my paper towel. With a paper towel I can receive instant swipe...only damp. two swipes...dry. With this multi-purpose rectangular bastion of absorption, I can dry my hands, refresh my face, and, most importantly, open the exit door without actually touching the handle.

You? You 'save trees'. I've got plenty of trees on my land I'd gladly donate. Besides, what do you run on? Unicorn blood?

I hate you Hand Dryer

I shake my hands like a wet dog...knowing that whatever I shake away shortens the time I stand shivering while the initially cold air blows uselessly over my wet hands. I look left, then right...hoping I somehow missed the paper towel dispenser.

No. I must look straight ahead at the object of my derision. 

I hate you Hand Dryer

I consider exiting with wet hands. Surely my jeans will dry, but my default drying location most likely will result in damp dollar bills in my pocket. I could use the cuff of my jeans...they're mostly wet anyway from the sloppy snow. 

But then I remember the exit door handle. If my hands are wet, they'll pick up 45% more germs than if they are dry. Or will they? What if the germs are stuck in the viscosity of the water and then I wipe my hands on my pant cuff immediately after I leave? All germs would be gone from my hands! Ah, but then someone's icky-germs are now on my pant cuff all day.

I hate you Hand Dryer

I 'rub hands together vigorously' while scowling at your double-entendre-filled instructions. They're wet, and cold, and while the water seems to be evaporating, it's making my hands clammy. When will the torture end!?! 

And then...

...the heating coils finally kick in...

Warmth emerges from your gaping is not wrong.

My hands are no longer an instant they warm up...they become dry...not just dry...almost a silky dry. 

I longer in a hurry. 

I playfully rearrange the instructions' wording in my brain. I snicker. My arm-sleeves need warmth, too. They are lapping at the warmth...enticing the warmth up the arms.

I do not resist...

The warmth continues to my chest...down the neckline of my shirt...I am completely bathed in warmth...completely at peace with the world...

...and then you stop. 

It seems you've made your point.

I stand back in utter conflict. These last moments of sheer bliss are not expected. The disdain beforehand has now turned into something else...a new-found, it couldn't be...but it's true:

I Love You Hand Dryer!

No. I hate you. I must hate you. All the logic coursing through my brain requires I hate you.

But my heart...and the warmth...and the freezing car that I know awaits me...

I love you. I hate you. 

Until next we meet, Hand Dryer. 

Until next we meet.

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