Bathed in Controversy
(Originally posted in the Stratford Star newspaper on December 1, 2011, and in the Fairfield Sun on December 8, 2011, both in my “Walsh’s Wonderings” column.)
Some say bath towels, like milk, have an expiration date. Regardless of race, creed, or nationality, there are really only two kinds of people in this world: Those who change bath towels after every shower, and those who don’t.
Towels matter. Because we use them while we are most exposed, this decision speaks to who we really are. If you don’t believe me, ask around. I had a friend in high school that recoiled in horror when I shared that my family only switched towels once a week. “That’s disgusting—how can you dry yourself with a dirty towel?” In his eyes, it was as if I was drying myself with a used diaper, but my mother was washing laundry for nine people each week. Unless a root system was actively growing on the towel, we used it.
The Turks, who first popularized today’s bath towel in the 18th century, never had to deal with this: They bathed weekly at best. I was once a Turk myself, spending most of my pre-teenage years trying to convince my mom of the wisdom of minimal bathing. Alas, she clung stubbornly to the Western tradition of bathing several times a week. Each of her kids was assigned a worn bath towel, large enough to do the job but small enough to be useless as a cape. We would toss them in the hamper each weekend and grab another, usually while soaking wet.
There were inherent flaws in this system, of course. As anyone with brothers can attest, teenage boys are required to wipe any number of unspeakable things on their younger brother’s bath towel. Whether you need to stem the blood from a shaving cut, cover a sneeze, or wipe the excess oil off your bike chain, a little brother’s towel does it all. It only gets worse at summer camp or college—without a blood bond, things are wiped on towels that would curl the toes of even the most experienced portable toilet cleaner. Small wonder that some won’t trust a towel that doesn’t come right out of the wash. Believers in the “All Need Antiseptic Linen” school of thought (I wish I could think of a good acronym for this) therefore insist that towels are automatically “unclean” after one use.
However, the “Did I Replace Towels Yesterday?” school of thought (I know—I need an acronym, but what?) seems to be gaining momentum. Even hotels, once a playground stocked with innumerable clean towels, are beginning to embrace my mom’s philosophy. Bathroom cards read, “Save our planet: Every day, countless gallons of water are used to wash towels that have only been used once. A towel on the rack means, ‘I will use again.’ A towel on the floor means, ‘Please replace.’ Thank your for helping us conserve the Earth’s vital resources.” While trying to guilt us into helping them save on their laundry bill (and who knew Tide was a vital resource), they manage to paint the “All Need Antiseptic Linen” folks as wasteful rather than “clean.” Hoisted by their own petard!
A simpler way to end the co
ntroversy is to ask the obvious question to those still clinging to the “All Need Antiseptic Linen” group (I know, I know—they need a shorter name). In short, what the heck are you doing to that poor towel? It’s meant to dry the water off freshly showered skin; if we’re not clean after a shower, when are we? True, there are areas of the body that might require stringent sanitary attention—places my mom, a former nurse, used to put thermometers to see if her kids were really sick. But this problem is remedied in the shower, not with a towel. Each of us made a fateful choice the first time we bathed alone: When we came to that fork in the road, we became either top-to-bottom towelers, or bottom-to-top towelers, and that has made all the difference.
A unique logic is employed in this crucial decision. I won’t use the towel after I finish drying my feet, for example. However, I’ll put it on the shower rack and use it the next day as if the Towel Fairies had been hard at work all night, dry cleaning. When I take two showers in a day, I won’t dry myself with the towel if it’s still damp; that’s what my wife’s towel is for. Only if hers is damp will I make that long walk to the linen closet for another towel. It’s almost as if I can hear my mom saying, “Starving kids in China would kill for a moist towel, and here you are asking for a new one!” as I reach around the guest towels for a spare. Guest towels are always off-limits, like foldable fine china. Our guest towels can spend entire presidential administrations in the closet until a guest appears, but we’ll dry ourselves with the bath mat or hand towels before we touch them.
Like most of the truly important questions in the universe, there is no simple answer as to how often to change a bath towel. If you change every day, you’ll either destroy the planet or run out and have to use the hand towel. If you keep your towel a few days, expect someone else’s toothpaste in your hair. On the other hand, if we’re honest, we can come to an agreement on one thing: there really isn’t a choice at that “fork in the road.” To be anything other than a top-to-bottom toweler is barbaric and wrong, and if you come to any other conclusion, you’re all wet.
