I finished my bath and saw that the rust-orange towel had molted all over my body.
I was covered with tufts of orange fur. It was not a good look, and it felt worse than it looked. Worse yet, it gave me a taste of what the next two months would be like.
My husband, Peter, is a man of many systems, and I have learned to appreciate this over the six years we have been married. He has a particular way to do nearly everything, from making coffee, to washing the dishes, to ordering food stuffs. I have found, by and large, it is best just to stay out of the way and things operate very well.
This brings us to moving.
Peter’s idea is that it makes sense to get our possessions out of the house before we begin the painting, minor repairs and deep cleaning. As we have already purchased our new place, Peter says we should ship all our belongings, visit my parents (finally!), and then return to a clutter-free house and do the work needed before putting it on the market.
I’m guessing you have already figured out the weakness in this plan.
“It will be like camping!” I reassured myself. But one bath with the orange towel has me reconsidering. The fluffy white towel I have grown accustomed to has already been packed and the orange “camping towel,” which will be pitched when we leave, has taken its place.
“Peter, I’m covered with fuzz,” I reported mournfully.
“That’s a very old towel,” he agreed.
“I don’t think I can use this towel for two months,” I clarified.
Peter gave me a look that indicated he thought I might be a bit of a whiner.
“Then don’t,” he said. “You use the blue towel.”
I knew the blue towel he meant. It was navy blue with a huge bleach stain on it. This was a generous gesture on Peter’s part. The blue towel is an absolute gem compared to the orange towel.
“What will you use?” I asked.
“I’ll use a small towel.”
“How small?”
“Just… small!” Peter said, as if I was getting a little too nosy. “I’ll use a hand towel!”
I couldn’t think of any decent hand towels roaming around at this point in the packing.
“You mean like a tea towel?”
“I’ll be fine!” Peter said.
Now I have images of Peter getting out of the shower and drying himself with some tiny relic, with tulips in the corners embroidered long ...
