The other morning as I was climbing out of the shower, I could smell a mouldy odour.

It was my towel.

It was stinky.

It was gross.

And I was about to towel off my clean body with it.

As I reached for the towel, I stopped.

This was wrong.

Damn it. I am a grown woman. I do not need to use a dirty towel.

I work hard for my family.

I work hard for myself.

I DESERVE A CLEAN TOWEL.

I stomped out of the shower, slipped on the floor, caught myself with one hand on the towel rack, the other hand on the wall and sadly the door handle firmly implanted in my lower belly roll.  I stood up. Re rooted my feet and took my dripping wet naked body to the linen closet.  I flung the door open only to find an abundance of pillow cases and stale smelling wash cloths. I dug under the stack for the softest towel I could find.

I wrapped myself up in it and took a deep inhale and exhale.

This was the life.

This was my moment.

Except my hair was dripping wet.  So, I needed another towel.

I deserve a clean towel.

But, two?

That’s a bit much.

Plus, it will make for more laundry.

And its just going around my head for a few minutes.

Just one more use before I hang it on the towel rack.

Then hopefully I remember to put in the washer.

Perfect.

Wait.

Who’s on first?

 

P.s  If you liked that post, you might like some of my favourites from 2011. They were filled with judgement about other people’s sexual habits and small little quips about life and lots of posts about my lack of hygeine.  I am very happy to say that my life has changed since then.