My Gramma had these Towels. Your grandmother probably has them too. These Towels are not your ordinary Towels. When Gramma looks at these towels, she hears beautiful harp melodies and angel voices singing. These are thee Towels.
My Gramma's Towels were white, with flowers along the bottom. She always had them nicely folded on the bar in the bathroom - all orderly, with the bath-sized ones on the bottom, then the hand-wiping ones, then the facecloths. They looked quite nice, if you were into white Towels with flowers.
There was an unwritten rule about these Towels. You must. not. touch. these Towels. Why, you ask? When I was younger, I didn't get it. They are just towels - with a lowercase "t". A couple times, I was tempted to dare to wipe my wet hands on them, but I chickened out at the last second, for fear of the Wrath Of The Touched Towel.
I have since realized, with terror, that the Towel is hereditary. It skips a generation and infiltrates into your psyche. I HAVE THE TOWELS! I got a set of hideous orange towels from my mom's friend. Ok, they're not hideous, but they definitely aren't my favourite coour. But, it's a SET of towels. A set, I tell you! Four of each! Matching! This is very exciting to me. The rest of my towels are a conglomeration of mixed up styles, sizes and eras. I love each of them individually - but to me, a set of towels is especially thrilling. They are all set up nicely on the bar, bath-sized ones on the bottom, then the hand-wiping ones, then the facecloths. They look quite nice, if you're into orange Towels.
Thursday, February 17, 2011
Friday, February 4, 2011
Politeness Polka
You've done it before.
You're walking up the steps to go to the post office. You see someone inside, walking towards the door, so you move aside so they can come out of the door first. They do the same. So, you take a step towards the door in order to open it for them to come through. They do the same. You both gesture, through the door, that the other person should go first. You both laugh, and gesture again. It's a neverending dance in front of the door.
It's like the Polka - without the sweaty pits and accordion music.
You're walking up the steps to go to the post office. You see someone inside, walking towards the door, so you move aside so they can come out of the door first. They do the same. So, you take a step towards the door in order to open it for them to come through. They do the same. You both gesture, through the door, that the other person should go first. You both laugh, and gesture again. It's a neverending dance in front of the door.
It's like the Polka - without the sweaty pits and accordion music.
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