By: Sarah Johnson
I recently observed my partner, Tom, folding towels in a manner that I consider incorrect. For him, the process involves folding them in half lengthwise, then crosswise, and cramming them into the cabinet. My stepson, Jake, follows suit. However, my preferred method is to fold the towel in half crosswise, then again, creating a neat trifold that allows three stacks to fit perfectly in our compact cabinet.
It begs the question: why does Tom insist on this method? Is he trying to provoke me? Have the men in this house formed an alliance to thwart my organizational system? Has he forgotten our discussions about towel folding? Is it simply a case of absent-mindedness or perhaps a subtle form of rebellion? And what’s Jake’s deal? Is he just being a typical teenager, or is he trying to drive me crazy?
Upon reflection, it strikes me that Tom’s folding technique may be reminiscent of his ex-wife’s style. Perhaps both he and Jake are clinging to a past that no longer exists. This is my home, and I refuse to let their towel-folding habits spark conflict. After everything we’ve been through—legal battles, custody issues, and petty disagreements over mundane items—I won’t let towels become a point of contention.
Earlier this week, I transported a basket of damp laundry from the back porch to the kitchen, where our dryer is inconveniently situated. After loading the dryer and starting it, I left the towels inside for a few days, leading to a situation where we were desperately searching for clean towels. When I finally retrieved the dry towels, I found myself lugging the basket to our bed, where my cat, Luna, promptly claimed the warm towels as her throne.
I don’t mind folding towels; I enjoy the symmetry and aesthetic appeal. The way they stack perfectly in the cabinet resembles books lined on a shelf, and when I pull one out, it unfolds easily, ready for use. It’s less emotionally taxing than folding T-shirts or matching socks, and it’s a simpler task than confronting the realities of our son’s rapidly growing wardrobe or my own fluctuating sizes.
But there are days when time escapes me, and I rely on Tom or Jake to step in. Unfortunately, their folding techniques become a thorn in my side, akin to an unwelcome neighbor. In a moment of frustration, I confronted Tom about his towel folding, anticipating his response would tie back to his ex-wife. “Because that’s how my mother did it,” he explained, which momentarily deflated my anger.
When I asked him why he didn’t fold them his way, he admitted he would prefer rolling them up. This made me reminisce about my own mother’s linen cabinet, where towels were rolled up neatly. I had intentionally avoided this method, and I couldn’t help but wonder what that said about my own preferences.
After sharing this history, I realized that the reasons for our towel folding habits mattered less than I had thought. While I still prefer the tri-fold for its neatness and space efficiency, it became clear that there was no conspiracy to irritate me. Instead, I found that the real source of tension lay in other household matters—like unwashed dishes and cluttered cupboards.
In the end, the towel folding issue doesn’t warrant further conflict. We’ve reached an understanding, and it’s a relief to let go of the small stuff.
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Summary
The author reflects on her family’s differing towel-folding techniques, exploring the emotional weight of seemingly trivial household tasks. Through humor and introspection, she realizes that the arguments over towel folding are less important than maintaining harmony in her home.