I recently discovered my partner, Mark, folding the towels incorrectly yet again. For him, “incorrectly” means he folds them in half lengthwise and then crosswise, cramming them into the cabinet. His son, Jake, follows suit. However, my preferred method involves folding the towel in half crosswise, then again, which creates a neat tri-fold—visually appealing and space-efficient. This approach allows three stacks to fit comfortably into our compact cabinet.
What motivates Mark to fold the towels this way? Is it an intentional act to irritate me? Have the men in this household formed an alliance against my established system? Is he simply forgetful? Can he not recall our numerous discussions where I demonstrated my folding preference and the benefits of my method? Is this behavior a sign of early-onset Alzheimer’s, or is it just a classic case of “men are from Mars”?
And what about Jake? Is his stubbornness typical teenage rebellion? Does he think, “You’re not my real mom,” and is that fueling his resistance? Is he even paying attention to me—or is he only half-listening, as teenagers often do? Are they colluding against me?
Reflecting on this, I suspect that my approach to towel folding might be reminiscent of the way Mark’s ex-wife did it. Perhaps they’re both clinging to a past that they cannot return to. This is my home, and I won’t allow these frustrations to escalate into a fight over something as trivial as towel folding.
Earlier this week, I lugged a basket of wet laundry from the back porch, where the washer is located, to the kitchen, which is oddly where the dryer is squeezed in next to the stove. I dumped the laundry into the dryer, scraped off the cat hair from the lint screen, set the timer, and slammed the door shut. After about 30 minutes, the towels were dry, but they languished in the dryer for days until we were desperate enough to search for a clean towel.
Of course, the freshly laundered towels were sitting in the dryer, untouched. I was irritated but resigned as I pulled the fluffy terryclothed towels from the dryer and carried them to our bed. My cat, Bella, always knows when I place warm towels there. She assumes her regal position atop the warm pile, refusing to move until she chooses to. Cold laundry doesn’t hold the same allure for her.
I don’t mind folding towels; I appreciate the symmetry and how they look lined up in the cabinet. When I pull them out, they unfold easily, making it quick to hang them on the towel bar. I find folding towels to be easier and less emotionally charged than dealing with my husband’s T-shirts or even my own clothing size. Bella observes silently, her opinions unspoken.
However, there are days when I’m too preoccupied to fold towels, and I leave it to Mark or make it a condition for Jake before he plays video games. Unfortunately, this persistent discrepancy in towel folding returns to annoy me.
Eventually, I confronted Mark about his folding method, knowing he would mention that his ex-wife did it that way. I was already on edge, though I tried to mask it with humor. “Because that’s how my mother did it,” he replied.
My anger diminished slightly, and I opened my mouth to make a snide remark when he continued, “Honestly, if it were up to me, I’d roll them up.” That image conjured memories of my mother’s linen cabinet with rolled towels from her wedding gifts—cocoa brown, tangerine, forest green—each worn by years of family use. I had made a conscious choice never to roll my towels. Why? That question lingers.
Mark looked at me as he folded a striped towel the way I had shown him. “But why do you fold them like that?” he asked. It was a valid question.
I hesitated, ready to say that I had always folded them this way, only to realize that this wasn’t entirely true. During college, my boyfriend folded towels in thirds, which fit perfectly into the cabinet of our tiny apartment. His method, too, had been passed down from his mother.
I was holding my family hostage over a towel folding method that belonged to someone else’s family from a different time. This standoff over folding techniques seemed trivial.
When I shared the story of my past folding methods, it became evident that the specific technique didn’t matter as much as I thought. I still prefer the tri-fold look and believe it fits better, but it turns out there was no conspiracy to drive me crazy with passive-aggressive towel folding. Instead, they seem to be plotting to drive me mad in other ways—through leftover dishes and haphazardly stacked cookware.
As for the towels? It’s not worth the fuss. We’ve come to an understanding.
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Summary:
Navigating family dynamics can be complicated, especially around seemingly trivial matters like towel folding. This article reflects on a humorous yet poignant struggle between a mother and her family over the proper way to fold towels, revealing deeper issues of identity and family history. Ultimately, the realization that these small disagreements are not worth the stress leads to a more harmonious household atmosphere.
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