I wish I could have been around for the meeting when some aspiring superstore organizer decided that the matches should be shelved not with the kitchen supplies, not with the camping gear, not with the candles, not with the butane lighters or the grilling tools, but next to the toothpicks.
“Hey, you know what? Both of these things are made of wood. They’re little skinny sticks of wood. Never mind that one of them has the capability to produce fire, and one of them serves the sole purpose of stabbing splinters into your gums—I think they should go together.”
I know, I know. There are probably fifteen good reasons behind the decision, but if it took two smart people—one of them a store employee—perambulating the entire store and finally consulting a second store employee in order to find the matches, there is something wrong with this scenario.
I can only imagine what the rest of the average superstore would look like had that same individual been responsible for all organizational decisions:
“On this aisle, we’ll have pencils, matches, toothpicks, and skewers. Oh, and eyeliner.”
“On this aisle, we’ll put curtain rods, toilet plungers, hiking poles, and lamp stands.”
“On this aisle, we’ll put pre-sliced cheese, napkins, printer paper, and sandwich bread. Oh, and don’t forget the baseball cards.”
“This aisle will be for the towels, v-neck shirts, greeting cards, and tortillas.”
“Let’s put the oranges, basketballs, cotton balls, and light bulbs on this aisle.”
“And we’ll put the chewing gum, pillows, dishwasher detergent gel-packs, and diapers over here. Voila!”
That would be just fine. All I’m asking is that they follow through with the logic. But no, this is another one of those situations that no one ever contests. It’s like a piece of spinach stuck between the incisors of Life. Everyone sees it, but no one is willing to call it out.
Well, guess what. If Life ever does find out about that particular bit of spinach, I know exactly where he can find a toothpick.