This is a love story about a girl and her towels This is a love story about a girl and her Martex towels. But it begins as love stories do: with a longstanding grudge.
And I?m not generally one to truly hold grudges, despite being half Italian, a product of a New Jersey upbringing, and a fan of Shakespearean tragedies. But my grudge is against all the people who failed to explain towels to me.
When I went off to college, I brought towels from home. I snatched a few from my family?s stash of varying sizes, mostly of the loudly patterned beach variety, with a couple of hand towels mixed in. I scarcely looked at the labels. Why would I need nice or new towels when I was going to be living in a tiny dorm room with no decent place to neatly fold and store them" But when I moved into my first apartment I went to a department store and gazed adoringly at the enormous, perfectly curated wall of towels. They were arranged by slowly darkening solid hues, and then by pattern.
I chose some plush forest-green towels and called it a day.
A few days later I was on a date and had excused myself to use the restroom. As I pulled up my sleeves to wash my hands, I noticed what seemed to be a layer of dark lint on my arms. I wiped at it thinking it was from my black shirt, but it simply moved around on my skin instead of coming off.
As I looked closer, I noticed it was dark green fuzz. I rolled up my jeans to find the same layer on my legs. I wet a paper towel and wiped and wipe...