So, there I was. Manicly shredding the sand-your-skin-off towels into toilet polishers when my husband walks in and asks what I’m doing. My kids know what I’m doing … turning these musty torture tools into useful cleaning tools. They call themselves “Ripping Machines” and are Speaking.In.Robot.Voices. They’ve moved on to shredding all of the paper in the house … ripping confidential, but recyclable documents into more useful campfire starters. Content and occupied, they are.
Meanwhile, I lead my husband into the master bathroom to find the new luxurious towels and bath mat gracing our freshly scrubbed tile. Standing in the newly-renovated (by addition of new towels) mini-spa within my house, and deeply inhaling the fresh scent of the new fabric, I turn to see a weak (at best) smile on my husband’s face. He is not nearly as excited as I *still* am. What? I ask … you don’t like green? No, he confesses … he doesn’t like soft new towels, because he doesn’t think they dry his skin well enough … he feels like they just push the water around but don’t actually absorb anything. He prefers the tear-your-flesh-off towels. Of course he does.
I thought I was being such a clever minimalist too … so weird … I only bought four plush, decadent new towels. One for each member of this family. To keep dry and clean as needed. If your towel doesn’t make it to the laundry, good luck with that shower. My plan was to eliminate the wet musty pile-up on the bottom of Mt. Laundry, which haunts me for weeks on end.
But instead, I got half way through my towel minimization effort only to be abruptly interrupted by my husband’s penchant for pelt punishment.
Oh well, to each, his own, I guess. (But I think we’re clear on which towels belong to whom.)