Toto Toilets

And Autonomous Vehicles

Hands-Free

We splurged on a Toto Washlet during our remodel. Not just any Toto—the full, unapologetic version. The one that senses you before you’ve fully committed to being there. You walk in and it glows softly, like it’s been expecting you. The lid lifts. The bowl does a polite little rinse, as if to say, go ahead. When you’re done, it handles the rest—flushing, closing, resetting itself without requiring a single decision.

It is, objectively, ridiculous. It is also excellent. After a few weeks, you stop noticing it, which is the real shift. The experience disappears and the behavior changes with it. You no longer think about flushing. You no longer reach for anything. The entire exchange becomes seamless, which is another way of saying you are no longer part of it.

The moment only reveals itself when you leave your own house. A hotel bathroom, the office, a friend’s place—perfectly normal, fully manual. You stand up, wash your hands, and walk out. Halfway down the hall, something feels off. You didn’t forget to flush because you’re careless. You forgot because something else has been doing it for you long enough that your body stopped keeping track.

No one warns you about that, Bitches. Not the luxury, but the trade.

Curve to Flush

We are heading into the same shift with autonomous vehicles, and most of the conversation is still about the machine—whether it works, how safe it is, how quickly it will scale. Those are engineering questions. The more interesting change is happening in the person sitting inside the system.

If the car handles the steering, braking, and decisions long enough, the act of driving changes shape. What used to require constant attention becomes something you monitor instead of perform. Your hands rest a little lighter. Your eyes wander a little more. The edge comes off just enough that you stop holding yourself in that quiet state of readiness that driving has always required.

The system works, so you let it. Over time, the habit of doing gives way to the habit of letting. The muscle doesn’t disappear, but it goes unused long enough that you stop reaching for it.

And then one day, you take out your beloved ’70 El Camino—the one you spent years restoring. No sensors. No assist. No quiet system managing the edges. You pull out, merge, and pick up speed, and for a brief moment you find yourself waiting—for the correction, for the brake, for the car to hold the line for you. Nothing happens, and the moment doesn’t wait.