An Entire Post About Toilet Paper

 Simple Becomes Complex

So, yesterday morning, the annoying electronic despot that rules my days rang at 10am on the precise dot as it does every single day with the message, PX. P is for pee and X is for time. Without this chirping time cop I have little or no sense that my bladder needs emptying and am prone to leaks where my belly is slowly wet or flooding where I resemble Noah, with no ark. Every two hours it reminds me to drag my dead butt in to the bathroom or prepare to pay for the consequences.
Back to 10am yesterday morning and my chirping PX and my Pavlovian response.I've learned the hard way not to hit 'dismiss' and not actually go. When I get to the bathroom I discover there isn't any toilet paper, no problem, there is always some in the cupboard-nope; check the closet-no; I can't find the flushable wipes. I've rolled in circles to every spot that the TP could be but there isn't anything. I know of two or three places that I could check if I could walk. Now, my bladder is suddenly urgently in need, I have no TP, and in some sloppy mix of hating my legs, the incessant beeping of  PX, and facing my third week of chronic nerve pain in my eye and head I break down in tears. Not just a few little frustration drips, but big sloppy ugly crying that doesn't have a whole lot to do with toilet paper. Luckily I found a partial roll on my commode and sat in the bathroom and cried.
A few days earlier I posited to my husband that he had better die before me otherwise I would be sharing at his service how much I appreciated his quiet habit of always filling the toilet paper holder and storage rack. That I found his simple gesture to be a statement of the wonderful care he takes of me. This made yesterday's emptiness and resulting little squall all the more ironic. 
This morning, not only was the roll full, the storage container and the back of the toilet had a small mountain of paper. And, my package of wipes were tucked at the base of the toilet. Yesterday they were hidden in plain site on the edge of the bathtub. He'd taken the time sometime between bedtime and breakfast to build a buttress of TP, his attempt to hold me together while he works across town.
I don't know if this is a story about toilet paper, or bladder function, or kind husbands. Maybe it says more about the every day hassles of my world, maybe it illustrates how fragile my emotional shell is. I do know there is meaning here: in TP, and electronic potentates, and crocodile tears. Thinking about it all now I can smile or I could cry: only time will tell tell.