I recently caught my husband, Mark, folding the towels incorrectly once again. By “incorrectly,” I mean he’s folding them in half lengthwise and then crosswise, cramming them into the cabinet. My stepson, Jake, follows suit. My preferred method? Folding the towel in half crosswise, then again, creating a tri-fold—visually appealing and neat. Three stacks folded this way fit perfectly in our compact cabinet.
What’s behind Mark’s choice? Is this a subtle ploy to irk me? Have the men in this house formed some sort of alliance against my towel-folding standards? Is he just forgetful? Doesn’t he remember our many discussions about the preferred folding technique and how it maximizes cabinet space? Is this some sort of accident, or just a case of “men are from Mars”?
And Jake—what’s his angle? Is it typical teenage stubbornness? A “you’re not my real mom” rebellion? Does he even hear me among the usual teenage din? Are they conspiring together?
Reflecting on it, I’m starting to suspect that this folding style harks back to the way Mark’s ex-wife used to do it. Perhaps they both yearn for a version of life that once was, but that ship has sailed. This is my home, and I refuse to fight over towel folding after everything we’ve navigated together—the lawyer fees, custody battles, and squabbles over misplaced lunch boxes, phone chargers, and jackets left at the other house. Not over towels.
Earlier this week, I lugged a basket of wet clothes from the back porch, where our washer resides, into the cramped kitchen housing the dryer. Why the dryer is squeezed into this space next to the stove is beyond me, but it is. I dumped the laundry into the dryer, cleared the lint screen, set the timer, and slammed the door. Thirty minutes later, the towels were dry but had lingered in the dryer for days, waiting until we were desperate for a clean one.
Of course, the freshly laundered towels sat in the dryer untouched. I was irritated, maybe even resigned, as I dug through the fluffy terrycloth and hoisted the basket onto my hip. My cat, Bella, knows that warm towels are her domain. Like a regal queen, she claims her throne atop the freshly folded pile until she deems it time to move on. Cold laundry? Not nearly as enticing.
I don’t mind folding towels; I enjoy the symmetry. I love how they look stacked like books in the cabinet, and how they unfold with a simple shake, ready for use. It’s far easier than matching socks or folding t-shirts and offers a gentler reminder of how much our son has grown. I prefer this task over facing the reality of my own changing wardrobe. Bella observes, her opinions unvoiced.
But there are days I’m too busy to fold, leaving it to Mark while he watches sports or making it a prerequisite for Jake to play video games. And yet, their inability to fold towels the way I prefer resurfaces like an annoying neighbor.
I finally confronted Mark, my voice tinged with irritation, asking why he folds them that way. I anticipated his response would be about how his ex-wife did it. My anger bubbled beneath the surface, but I masked it with humor.
“Because that’s how my mom folded them,” he replied.
I felt my frustration wane slightly. Before I could retort, he added, “Honestly, if it were up to me, I’d roll them up.”
This image transported me back to my mother’s linen closet, filled with rolled towels of all colors from her wedding gifts—cocoa brown, tangerine, forest green, and sky blue. I had consciously chosen not to roll my towels. What does that say about me?
Mark looked at me, folding a striped towel the way I’d shown him. “But why do you fold them that way?” he asked genuinely.
I opened my mouth to respond, “I’ve always done it this way,” but then I realized it wasn’t true. In college, I briefly lived with a boyfriend who folded towels in thirds. They fit perfectly in our narrow cabinet, and why did he fold them that way? Because his mother did.
I was holding on to a folding tradition from a different family and era. It became clear that the “my way” standoff wasn’t worth it. I still like the tri-fold appearance and believe it fits better in the cabinet, but there was never a conspiracy to drive me mad with passive-aggressive towel folding. Clearly, they have other plans for my sanity—like the never-ending battle over uneaten leftovers, unwashed dishes, and a haphazard pile of pots in the cupboard.
As for the towels? Not a big deal anymore. We’ve reached an understanding.