Whimsical Wayz-Throwing in the Towel

Throwing in the towel

There is no lower point in a mans life than when he comes to the crippling realization his very home, the one he shares with three other humans, two cats and two dogs, now has a washroom that, thanks to his wife, periodically sprouts towels that are not to be used.

This has finally happened to me. For those of you sitting there thinking, “But Vaughan, it’s not like she’s making you bathe and gently exfoliate every night,” let me tell you that yes, she does, which only makes this new towel situation worse. I don’t know whether to shake or drip dry because the towels I’m not allowed to touch look exactly like the ones I’m supposed to use.

I could understand if these were special towels. Perhaps handed to my wife by the queen or some other highly respected yet powerless figurehead clever enough to not yet be indicted in some bizarre kitten scandal.

But the towels I was told not to use weren’t, in the strictest sense of the word, special towels. It would make sense if they were good towels. Good towels look new, unused and -- dare I say -- pretty. They sport bright, cheerful flowers that provide an eye catching splash of vibrant, pleasing colour which contrasts sharply against the simple brilliant starkness of a gleaming white commode. The towels she hung looked like the same towels I routinely sing Footloose in, an event that, when experienced by unsuspecting eye witnesses, cannot really be fully explained without using the word “Defendant.”

Bottom line, these were the same towels I have always used on every other occasion with the exception of two very important facts. This time, A) they were hanging neatly, and B) my wife told me in her “Bad dog!” voice not to touch them.

I get this voice a lot. As a husband I’m used to being told not to touch stuff, but this was totally different. Here was something I’ve always been allowed to touch. One could even say encouraged to touch. And yet, in the blink of an eye, the rules changed and my wife was standing over me with an extended finger -- a finger that is capable of splitting air molecules -- saying over and over, “Don’t touch! Bad!”

Perhaps even more troubling was the fact these towels were hanging on an actual towel rack. I have since learned to grow suspicious of towels hanging on a rack because it’s not like they just dum-de-dummed their way into the washroom and hung themselves. They were put there for a reason and that reason, apparently, was to do absolutely nothing. Troubling, yes, because I had no idea my towel rack could even support towels let alone towels pretending to be fancy decorations.

This is why I’ve decided to step up and try to explain the cold facts to all those female readers out there who have been pondering such a move. If you add touch-less towels to your decorum, the man in your life isn’t going to understand what you are doing. He won’t truly get it. If he says he does, he’s lying.

Here’s the thing: for any confessed male, having decorative towels suddenly appear out of nowhere is terrifying. Ladies, as a guy, I can assure you that men in general can’t just switch gears like this. We need warning. Time to adjust. We aren’t hard wired to deal with this level of domestication. Most important of all is we are physically unable to distinguish between ‘normal towel’ and ‘special company towel’ when the towels are -- and I don’t know how I can be any clearer here -- one and the same.

You need to do things like this slowly. Like maybe leave one lying just outside the door in the hall. We would see it there after a few weeks and then acknowledge it by ignoring it. Because it is on the floor we will know enough not to touch it.

After a few months, move the towel into the bathroom and slowly over the course of a year, up the wall to the rack. Of course his will be a never ending process depending on how often the bathroom is to be redecorated.

What concerns me about my particular situation is that this towel thing has never happened before. It won’t be long until there are official decorative towels living on the rack all the time. This will lead to scented fruit shaped soaps that, like the towels, is grounds for immediate termination if touched.

I am at a loss to explain the need for this level of domestication, but I feel it might be a natural progression. Women tend to grow and flower with age. Through no fault of their own, they become increasingly proper, pleasant and social. Men, on the other hand, sweat more.

Trust me, to avoid any problem I would gladly give in to my wife’s decorating ambitions and just go with the flow. Unfortunately, I just don’t know which towel to throw in.

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