Pleistocene toothpaste for the sabre-toothed man
It is the little things in life that get me through the day - like toothpaste. I'm pretty picky about my toothpaste and have a brand loyalty to Aquafresh, although not so great I would want to write a product review.
For weeks on end it provides little more entertainment than you might expect from brushing your teeth. But as the tube begins to run out, when you have pushed all that you can towards the nozzle, this is when the tension begins to build.
Without acknowledging as much, Gill and I become engaged in a kind of "brush to the death," each of us trying to extract the last trace of toothpaste.
This battle of wills goes on for weeks, far beyond the time you would imagine that the toothpaste would be exhausted. The other day we had reached the limit, the final "paste off." The tube looked finished, the nozzle hollow and no amount of ordinary squeezing could produce that precious final smidgen of paste. Only brute force and some careful manipulation of the tube enticed enough paste to coat the brush. Triumph.
It was with a sense of disbelief and defeat, therefore, that next morning I saw the empty tube still there by the sink, striking an almost mocking pose. It was emptier than empty, apparently beyond exploitation. Finished. How had she done it?
Slumped in despair, I picked up the tube and studied it. Shook my head, admired her resolve. There was no way back this time. Or was there? I smoothed the already smooth flanks once again with the side of a comb, pushed in the shoulders of the tube, manipulating them every which way before, with Zen-like concentration, stabbing each of my index fingers in to the back of the nozzle with an almost superhuman effort, I achieved the seemingly impossible, gathering a final tiny tear-drop of white paste to scrape across the brush.
Exhausted and emotionally drained,I returned to the bedroom. "How did you manage to get some more out of the tube last night?" I asked Gill.
"I couldn't," she said, "I had to brush my teeth without paste."
I nodded and felt good about things. In these days when men are giving ground everywhere - see this example too - it's good to know that the hunter-gathering instincts have not deserted us. Someone has to put toothpaste on the table.
They might not register in Maslow's hierarchy of needs, but these subliminal primeval behaviours form a direct link to a time when Mammoths and Sabre-toothed tigers roamed the land.
It's been a long road from the Pleistocene to the consumer society of today but the thread remains unbroken. Next time you squeeze that tube, just listen for the roar.
For weeks on end it provides little more entertainment than you might expect from brushing your teeth. But as the tube begins to run out, when you have pushed all that you can towards the nozzle, this is when the tension begins to build.
Without acknowledging as much, Gill and I become engaged in a kind of "brush to the death," each of us trying to extract the last trace of toothpaste.
This battle of wills goes on for weeks, far beyond the time you would imagine that the toothpaste would be exhausted. The other day we had reached the limit, the final "paste off." The tube looked finished, the nozzle hollow and no amount of ordinary squeezing could produce that precious final smidgen of paste. Only brute force and some careful manipulation of the tube enticed enough paste to coat the brush. Triumph.
It was with a sense of disbelief and defeat, therefore, that next morning I saw the empty tube still there by the sink, striking an almost mocking pose. It was emptier than empty, apparently beyond exploitation. Finished. How had she done it?
Slumped in despair, I picked up the tube and studied it. Shook my head, admired her resolve. There was no way back this time. Or was there? I smoothed the already smooth flanks once again with the side of a comb, pushed in the shoulders of the tube, manipulating them every which way before, with Zen-like concentration, stabbing each of my index fingers in to the back of the nozzle with an almost superhuman effort, I achieved the seemingly impossible, gathering a final tiny tear-drop of white paste to scrape across the brush.
Exhausted and emotionally drained,I returned to the bedroom. "How did you manage to get some more out of the tube last night?" I asked Gill.
"I couldn't," she said, "I had to brush my teeth without paste."
I nodded and felt good about things. In these days when men are giving ground everywhere - see this example too - it's good to know that the hunter-gathering instincts have not deserted us. Someone has to put toothpaste on the table.
They might not register in Maslow's hierarchy of needs, but these subliminal primeval behaviours form a direct link to a time when Mammoths and Sabre-toothed tigers roamed the land.
It's been a long road from the Pleistocene to the consumer society of today but the thread remains unbroken. Next time you squeeze that tube, just listen for the roar.
Labels: Aquafresh, hunter-gathering, mamoths, Maslow's hierachy of needs, Pleistocene, sabre-toothed tigers, toothpaste
posted by Richard Donkin at
2:05 PM
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