I have a theory. Not the sort of theory that gets you carted off by men in white coats, nor one that requires a wall plastered with newspaper clippings and lengths of red string. No, mine is far more insidious, far more mundane, and, therefore, far more horrifying.
The lids are winning.
It starts innocently enough. A jar of pickles that refuses to budge. A milk carton with a pull-tab seemingly designed for a man with the forearms of a North Sea trawler-man. A bottle of painkillers—whose very purpose is to alleviate suffering—doling out its first punishment in the form of a wrist sprain. At first, you assume it’s a personal failing. Perhaps you’re getting old, losing your grip, becoming one of those tragic souls who has to ask a shop assistant to break the seal on a bottle of water. But then you witness it elsewhere. Husky-voiced gym enthusiasts grunting over their protein shakes. Sharp-suited executives reduced to pleading with their fruit yoghurts. Hardened mechanics, hands like iron vices, humiliated by a tube of superglue.
This is no accident.
Somewhere—presumably in a subterranean lair lined with stainless steel—a cabal of engineers is hard at work. They do not rest. They do not smile. Their only purpose: to refine the modern lid into a perfect instrument of human misery. They experiment with polymers, searching for the precise molecular structure that will bond irrevocably with glass. They test grip strength algorithms to ensure twist-off caps will feign cooperation before clamping down like a mediaeval torture device. They fine-tune foil seals to rip in such a way that leaves precisely 78% still attached to the rim. And, as they do all this, they nod approvingly, their lab coats pristine, their hands unblemished by the crude labour of actually opening anything.
It is a slow war. A war of attrition. The lids do not aim to destroy us in one fell swoop. That would be merciful. No, their purpose is erosion. They chip away at our dignity, force us into humiliating compromises. We appeal to stronger hands—spouses, neighbours, in moments of true degradation, the nearest child. And the lids laugh.
Of course, the official line is always the same: “tamper-proofing.” Tamper-proofing, as if a legion of malevolent figures is lurking, hell-bent on lacing our jam with cyanide. Has this ever actually happened? Who, exactly, is breaking into our homes under cover of darkness, bypassing security alarms, ignoring wallets and jewellery, only to perform a targeted sabotage of the peanut butter? No, this is not about safety. This is about control.
Consider what it means. We—humans, the supposed pinnacle of evolution—split the atom, mapped the human genome, landed a machine on a rock hurtling through space, and yet here we are, utterly defeated by a jar of pesto.
I have fought back. I have deployed every tactic. I have hammered lids against counter-tops, drowned them in boiling water, armed myself with rubber grip mats, tea towels, and—on particularly grim occasions—an actual wrench. Occasionally, I am victorious. But victory is fleeting. The lids regroup. They evolve. And just when I think I have gained the upper hand, they unleash their deadliest creation yet—the push-and-twist cap.
So, my friends, I urge you: remain vigilant. When the day comes that you find yourself locked in battle with an unyielding lid, do not blame yourself. It is not you. It is them. And they are watching.