Updated: July 27, 2016
Originally Published: November 9, 2005
I caught my partner, Mark, once again folding the towels incorrectly. To him, this means folding them in half lengthwise and then again crosswise, before cramming them into the cabinet. My stepson, Jake, follows suit. However, my preferred technique involves folding the towel in half crosswise, then again, bringing both sides in for a neat trifold—so much more aesthetically pleasing. This method allows three stacks of towels to fit neatly into our compact cabinet.
What prompts Mark to fold towels this way? Is he engaging in some subtle act of defiance? Have the men in this household teamed up against me, forming a patriarchal alliance to disrupt my system? Or perhaps he simply forgets our many discussions about how I like the towels folded, and how efficiently they fit into the cabinet? Is it an intentional oversight, or a sign of something more concerning?
And what about Jake? Is it typical teenage stubbornness, or a reflection of his feelings towards my role as a stepmother? Is he trying to provoke me? Is he even listening to my requests? I can’t help but wonder if they are colluding.
Reflecting on this, I recall that this folding technique might be reminiscent of how Mark’s ex-wife used to do it. Perhaps both of them are yearning for a past that no longer exists. After everything we’ve navigated—lawyer fees, custody battles, and petty squabbles over misplaced items—I refuse to let this towel folding issue escalate into another conflict. This is my home; my method of folding towels will not be disregarded.
Earlier this week, I lugged a basket of damp laundry from the back porch, where our washing machine is located, to the kitchen where the dryer is squeezed beside the stove. Don’t ask me why it’s placed there, but that’s where it fits. I dumped the contents into the dryer, scraped away cat hair and lint from the screen, set the timer, and pressed start. Days passed before I finally got around to folding the dried towels, which were left in the dryer until we ran out of clean options.
The warm, fluffy towels were left unaddressed, and nobody took the initiative to fold them. Feeling both irritated and resigned, I gathered the towels into the basket and carried them to our spacious bed. Ophelia, our cat, immediately recognized the freshly laundered towels and claimed them as her throne, lounging contentedly atop the warm pile. Nothing compares to the joy of warm towels, after all.
I don’t mind folding towels; I actually enjoy the symmetry. I appreciate how they look stacked in the cabinet like neatly arranged books. Pulling them from the cabinet is a breeze when they unfold easily, ready to hang up. I find folding towels to be a mindless task, far easier than dealing with the emotional weight of folding my husband’s old T-shirts or worrying about the sizes of my undergarments.
Yet, there are days when my schedule is too packed, and I leave the task to Mark or require Jake to fold them before he plays video games. Then, the frustration of their different folding methods resurfaces, like a persistent neighbor.
Finally, I confronted Mark, a hint of irritation in my voice, about why he insisted on folding towels that way. I suspected he would say it was how his ex-wife did it. Before he responded, I felt the anger bubbling up, but I tried to mask it with humor.
“Because that’s how my mother folded them,” he replied.
My anger lessened slightly, and as I opened my mouth to retort, he added, “Honestly, if it were up to me, I’d roll them up.”
This statement transported me back to my mother’s linen cabinet, where towels were rolled with their ends showing, in colors from her wedding gifts long ago. I had consciously avoided rolling my towels because of that memory.
Mark then asked me why I preferred my method of folding. It was a fair question, and as I prepared to answer with, “I’ve always done it this way,” I realized that I hadn’t. In college, I had a boyfriend who folded towels into thirds, which fit perfectly in our narrow cabinet. Why did he fold them that way? Because his mother did.
I was fixating on a folding method dictated by someone else’s family tradition, which hardly seemed a valid reason for conflict. As I explained my history with towel folding, it became evident that the method didn’t matter as much as I thought. I still liked my trifold style, and I still believed it fit better in the cabinet, but it was clear there was no plot to drive me mad with passive-aggressive towel folding.
In the end, what mattered was harmony in our home, and the towels were no longer a source of contention.
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Summary:
In the midst of household dynamics, a simple disagreement over towel folding surfaces as a reflection of deeper issues regarding family roles and past experiences. Emma confronts her partner Mark and stepson Jake about their differing towel-folding methods, leading to a revelation about the origins of her own folding preferences. Ultimately, she realizes that the method of folding towels is less important than maintaining peace in the home.