Tuesday, January 14, 2014

                                     TOWEL TALK

     When I was a young teacher, I confided in our school librarian that my husband (BMW-Before Mr. Wonderful) often left the towels askew in the powder room. As this was the bathroom used by guests, it made me mad. I had explained to him (in my most careful teacher tone) that these were “for decoration only,” and that he should not use them at all. He clearly saw no logic in this and continued to use them and leave them hanging all crooked. My librarian colleague said,”I used to get upset about the same issue, but since my husband’s death, when I go in that bathroom, I would give anything now to see those towels all rumpled.” Needless to say, I immediately went from 5’5” to 3’4” in seconds. Life lessons from a towel.

     How often do you think about your towels? Most of us take them for granted until we
go somewhere where the towels feel like velvet or sandpaper. Some towels are so big, you could wrap an elephant in them; some are so small, it would take you 45 minutes to dry your neck. 

     Last night, as I was trying to bottle my creative juices, I thought to myself, “Wouldn’t I love to come back as George Clooney’s towel?” Just think, I could hang in his bathroom and just look at him without stalker status. I could feel him holding me and rubbing me against him every time he got out of the shower. I would feel inebriated by this albeit brief encounter, and then he could just hang me out to dry while I fantasized about the next time. This would be pure bliss until I got thrown into the washing machine, suds in my threads and dizzy in the spin cycle. Then I  would wait for the three seconds it would take him to lift me out and gently toss me into the dryer. After taking another spin, I wouldn’t be feeling too amorous, but after a few folds, I would recover and impatiently wait to be chosen for the towel rack. I realize this is ridiculous, as I am making the absurd assumption that George does his own laundry. I am also assuming he would hang me up after drying off. What if he left me in a heap on the cold tile floor? What if I started to smell all mildewy. He might eventually throw me away like women his own age. 

     I have too much time on my hands.