In many homes, there exists a sacred textile caste system, presided over by “the good towels.” These aren’t just towels; they are plush, pristine, often color-coordinated monuments to aspirations of sophistication. They live in the linen closet, folded with military precision, smelling faintly of lavender and unfulfilled potential. Their purpose, it seems, is solely to exist.
Who are these mythical “good towels” for? Guests, perhaps? But even then, only the most esteemed guests might dare to disturb their perfect repose. For the rest of us, there are the “everyday” towels – the faded, slightly threadbare, suspiciously stiff veterans that have seen more action than a pirate flag. These are the workhorses, the ones that dry our post-shower selves without judgment, even if they sometimes feel more like sandpaper than cotton.
The irony is not lost on us. We invest in luxury, only to relegate it to an ornamental role. It’s a bizarre form of domestic self-denial. Are we saving them for a day that never comes? A day when the universe aligns, and our bathroom is miraculously spotless enough to warrant such grandeur? Or is it simply the joy of knowing they’re there, a soft, fluffy secret waiting in the wings, a testament to our ability to own nice things, even if we’re too humble (or practical) to use them ourselves? The mystery, much like the towels, remains perfectly folded.
Welcome to Kelly’s Korner: “Finding the extraordinary in the ordinary, and the ridiculous in everything else.”
