I have a confession to make: I am a towel stacker. You know how gamblers stack the deck? I stack the towels.
There's one towel that's my favorite - a plush, white one I plucked from a clearance shelf on one of my rare solo visits to Target. Fluffy and just the right size (bigger than a typical towel, smaller than a bath sheet), it's my Goldilocks towel - the one that feels "just right" after my shower.
And so I stack it.
I don't think anyone in my family really cares. They're normal people, and so to them, a towel is just a towel. But asking them to save that towel for me seems sort of odd.
So I stash it, placing it low enough in the pile that my husband or daughter won't end up with it, knowing that it will be wasted on a typical shower-taker who simply grabs the nearest towel. If they won't appreciate it, after all, what's the harm in saving it for myself?
It's a small thing, really - and perhaps a little strange - but it's one of the little things that makes life a bit more pleasant - along with laundry detergent and bath supplies that smell good, Starbucks iced chai and just the right pen when I'm writing a story. Can we live fulfilling, successful lives without these things, or with inferior versions? Of course.
But isn't it nice when we don't have to?