Live And Let Dry

 

I stood outside the shower, naked, wet, and confused. That’s because my wife bellowed from the bathroom door, “Hey, stop! You can’t do that!”

My first thought was, can I get in trouble for just taking a shower? Apparently. So, I responded by asking the question that any sensible person would ask: “What did I do?”

She growled at me like I had put sulfuric acid in the washing machine. “I’ve told you before - do not dry off with our good towels.”

During the course of our marriage, we’ve had heated arguments about some idiotic things. And this was shaping up to be another one of them. I didn’t care - I wasn’t willing to let this go without a fight, because I had logic and reason on my side.  Let’s get ready to rumble! Round one was about to begin. 

Before the verbal sparring started, I’ll be honest: I have heard her admonitions before. A few weeks ago, she threatened to put sugar in my gas tank when she caught me stuffing one of her precious towels into my gym bag. Thank goodness she didn’t see me wiping off the dog with it. They might still be searching for my body.

I began, with a simple request. “Do me a favor and go over the reasons I’m not allowed to dry off with a towel.”

“You already know- it’s not any towel, it’s one of my good white towels. Once you start drying off with them, they’re going to get dingy, and I want my bathrooms to look nice when we have company.”

“But this is our bedroom bath. Company never comes in here.”

“Well, what about the guest bathrooms upstairs?”

“I’ve got an incredible idea. Put the sacred white towels upstairs now.”

By now, you should realize that her concept of towels is completely different than mine. She wants to make a design statement with them. I just want to dry off. 

I’ve come up with an interesting theory: my wife having towels that no one is allowed to use is somehow related to my mother having a living room that no one was allowed to live in. It’s genetic. Men are hunter-gatherers, and women set placemats.

Growing up, our living room was strictly off-limits to anyone, adult or child, unless we had company - which was about once every two years. And the sofa was Mom’s version of the Ark of the Covenant. It was almost never used, and under no circumstances were you allowed to eat or drink on it - despite the fact that the whole thing was covered in enough plastic to wrap around her giant Plymouth that sat in the garage. 

What’s worse, the rules weren’t enforced uniformly. Once, when our preacher came to visit, Mom not only graciously invited him into the living room, but offered him a seat on the sacred sofa.

I immediately chimed in, saying, “But Mom! Nobody’s supposed to sit there.” She flashed me one of those mom looks, then said through a forced smile, “It’s OK, honey. Why don’t you go in there and get the Reverend a cup of coffee?”

Now I was thoroughly agitated. “Wait!” I said loudly. “He can’t eat or drink in here.” Once again, she spoke, trying her best to keep a Christian demeanor while threatening me.

“Do-what-I-say, dear.” I read between the lines. If I didn’t blindly obey her command, I was never going to see my bicycle again.

I digress. Back to the main event. Carol looked at me and said, “You just don’t get it. People with class decorate with bright white towels.”

If she’s going to fight dirty, I’m going to get in the dirt with her. Fact: we have eight pillows in our bedroom, and at any given time, only four of them are on our bed. I brought this to her attention by saying, “Do you think Martha Stewart keeps four pillows stacked behind a chair in her bedroom? Is that class?”

“You just don’t get it.”

“I get that somehow you and a lot of other people have perverted what a towel is. You dry things with them, wipe  things up with them - maybe even roll them up and put them under your door in the winter to keep cold air from coming in the house.”

“Look, all I want you to do is not use my good white towels and clean up the pee when you miss the toilet. Is that too much to ask?”

“Maybe it is,”I replied. Especially that part about peeing. How do I know that it’s not you?”

“I give up! You are hopeless!” she exclaimed, and stormed out of the bathroom.

Since I made my point and got in the last word, I declared victory. And with an incredible show of good sportsmanship, I hung up the good white towel and used an old maroon one. Talk about a gracious winner.

Once I dried off and dressed, I headed to the kitchen, where I grabbed a frozen breakfast waffle and put it in the microwave. I had no more  pressed the button when I turned around to find my wife, with her arms folded and a scowl on her face.

“Is that waffle on my good china?” she asked pointedly.

I proudly said, “Yep. And I’m gonna eat it with your good silverware.”

Ding ding!  The rematch had already begun.