For lack of a better title: On Washcloths
My dear, sweet blog readers… we’ve been friends for a while now, right? And there’s nothing I could do or say that would make you disown me – or my blog, which is the closest thing I have to a child? I feel like we are intimate enough that I can let you in on something a wee bit quirky.
I hoard washcloths. Seriously, I stockpile washcloths like a worldwide cotton plague is imminent. I have – I don’t know? – 40 or 50? And while I got rid of many things before the big move last summer, I cannot tell you that I got rid of any of my precious washcloths.
I wash my face every morning and every night, and usually once in the afternoon, each time with a fresh, clean rag. Many things are better “used,” but this principle does not apply to bathing suits, car tires, or washcloths. As I am traveling light (um, “light” being a relative term) on The Big Trip, I left many things behind. But not my washcloths. I brought them all.
The washcloth must be laundered, fluffy, and folded into quarters. It must have all loose strings cut from the edges. It must be stacked in a multi-colored pile, never next to the same shade. It must be drenched in significantly warm water, and used with Biore face scrub. It must.
I promise I am not a freak.
Actually, I just read what I wrote, and… never mind. I hereby raise my freak flag – fastidiously, and in the form of a washcloth.