A year ago, my parents gave us a new toilet seat. We didn’t realize we needed a new seat, but they did. It took zero time to recognize that they were correct. This was the toilet seat that solved problems we didn’t know we had with our toilet seat. The new seat could not be slammed. Nobody could crush a body part with this seat. The new toilet seat gently closed itself. It was so nice that we took it for granted.
Then, we spent a weekend at a hotel in another city. All night long, the background noise was:
Flush. Slam. “Oops. Sorry.”
Upon our return home, both adults immediately apologized to the unappreciated toilet seat. “I love this silent, no crush toilet seat.”
As time rolled on, we continued to be appropriately (perhaps more than appropriate) thankful for the toilet seat. Bathroom complaints focused on toothpaste globs and moisture on the toilet seat. Moisture that continued despite constant requests for splashers to wipe the seat.
Tonight, I watched a dog lift the seat for a drink and sloppily splash as they sipped. As they finished, the seat gently lowered itself.
Not only is the toilet seat less enchanting, I now have to apologize to every male in the household for constant lectures on the use of clorox wipes.