Toilet paper at Tufts, technically, has two sheets per square. But two wrongs don't necessarily make a right. For the purposes of this article, and because what Tufts considers two-ply is simply not, all toilet paper referred to herein is nothing more than one-ply toilet paper.
One-ply toilet paper at Tufts is like a sinister work of art. Up close, it looks like an elaborate spider web; myriad sinuous threads interwoven to create an intricate-looking network, a unique miracle of tensile strength. Like most beautiful things, however, it is inherently fragile. A single drop of water is capable of eroding the framework so it falls apart in your hands. Still, it is a thing of magnificence - structurally and artistically - that populates our restrooms on campus.
That being said, one-ply toilet paper is not what I want to use to wipe my nether regions. So many things bother me about it. (For the purposes of word count issues, one-ply toilet paper will hereby be referred to as OPTP).
For one, you can see through a sheet of OPTP at Tufts. There's something really unnerving about staring at a single segment and being able to make out, in fairly accurate detail, the objects behind it. It doesn't reinforce an impression of hygiene.
By comparison, some other notable things that I know I can see through are glass, plastic, colanders and imaginary friends. Imaginary friends are similar to OPTP, in that believing in their tangible existence will lead to heartbreak and hurt later in life. In the former case, you realize Billy never existed, and was never your best friend. In the latter, you can become violently ill.
Another reason to hate OPTP at Tufts is that it falls apart just about as fast as a drunken mother at her son's wedding. Actually, that metaphor isn't entirely accurate, but you get the idea. You wouldn't want OPTP on your team if you were playing Red Rover. Nor would you want it protecting your back in a late night rumble in a back alley with knives. In both situations, you would lose and you would lose terribly.
When we think of sanitary toilet paper, we want tough and strong, and more opaque than a cobweb. When we wipe, we shouldn't have to double or triple up in order to feel marginally clean. When we go to wash our hands, it should be because we want to cleanse ourselves of the microbes we can't see, not the ones we can.
I'm not advocating Tufts switch to Charmin's four-ply, hand-woven, scented, ridged-and-designed-for-optimal-poop-seizure, 'Qwilt-astic' rolls that cost a kidney and your firstborn child. There are good, fiscally sound reasons to buy OPTP. I live in a house off campus, and we use OPTP to save money. While we may have to double up, I firmly believe that we still save more than with two-ply and probably waste less. If I don't need a gourmet meal every night, I most certainly don't need expensive and ornate toilet paper.
At least I can cite categorically where the savings I accrue from buying OPTP goes. I can pay for (in no particular order) beer, school books, the electric bill and obligatory chivalric first-date dinner with said assets. In the end, my money is better spent when I buy one-ply.
But Tufts buys massive quantities of factory made, threadbare monster rolls. And they do it in bulk. That, my friends, is two discounts right there. I can't figure out where the savings go.
We've all heard this argument before. Tufts charges a whopping $44,100 per year, and we're pretty much clueless as to where it goes. Most of it goes to tuition, a smattering goes to student activities, and some of it winds up in an oriental rug for the Bacow residence. A lot goes into Tufts' legal fund, which gets periodically drained by that god-awful combination of hazing, University negligence, stupid choices, broken bones and vindictive parents. Even more is going to the acquisition of property for future expansion.
This is fine. If Tufts wants to grow and do it on my dollar, I can accept that, but not while I'm getting the short end of the stick on toilet paper. It's a simple give-and-take. If I have to deal with OPTP that falls apart mid-wipe, I want some compensation. And spending money on brand new, redesigned signage for trashcans doesn't count.
Seriously. You don't need to put the word "garbage" in 18 different languages for people to get the point. Furthermore, there haven't been any major advances in trash that would make old signs outdated or obsolete.
Bad move on Tufts' part. So, now the rollercoaster ride through tangent and segue comes to an end. All I'd like to say, in conclusion, is this: the next bursar's bill we get, there had better be a credit under the name 'savings from toilet paper.' That, or something quantifiably excellent will have to occur and be attributed to said savings.
Incidentally, if you happen to read at a college level, this opinion column cost you approximately $4.27 to read. Be sure to tell your parents their money is being well-spent.
Alex Sherman is a senior majoring in architectural studies. He can be reached via e-mail at alexander.sherman@tufts.edu.
