Receiving practical gifts is a mainstay of acting the part of adult. Knowing exactly what to do with those gifts proves it…or not.
I received a shitload of white / off white bath towels, washcloths, and hand towels on Saturday. Actually Angie picked them out for both of us since our repository of bath linens were on their last leg. Most of the existing stash were discarded weeks ago forcing us to make do with a few holdovers that happened to survive the purge.
The entire bundle of newly woven cotton fluffiness was washed and dried soon after we arrived home eventually to be neatly folded and put away for use the next day. Watching them tumble to and fro through the transparent door of our programmable washing machine reminded me of the past.
In 1990, I graduated from high school. Because I was planning on going away for college immediately following, I asked for essentials as graduation gifts. Specifically, black towels. And thankfully, I received them amongst other necessities in abundance.
I lived in a four story Soviet inspired dormitory building on the campus of Mississippi State University as a freshman. Having had little domestic training other than how to dust, vacuum, and make up my bed, laundry was the most intimidating task that I was forced to face once on my own. Because I arrived with everything neatly categorized, I put the idea of facing the laundry mat within the back of my mind.
The hall that I lived on was essentially a double loaded corridor with gang showers / toilets within the central core of the building. Thankfully, each room did have a wall hung lav in the corner of the room. On most days for me, class started at 8 AM, therefore I was up by 7ish. After eating my strawberry Pop Tart (sans frosting) and drinking a Dr. Pepper, my lanky frame was hastily covered via bathrobe (black, of course). With shower caddy in hand, I then made my way to the public humiliation chamber with my heart in my throat, freshly manufactured black towel and washcloth in hand.
Every day was a good day to shave. This was my motto as a freshman. Come to think of it, that motto stuck with me throughout my college career. I was keenly aware that my delicate, fair skin combined with the heavy, course beard might easily result in the drunken neophyte look were it not for my fastidiousness each and every morn.
Quick shower is an understatement in describing these hygienic endeavors. During this routine, I felt like Pinky with my shared dorm room being that center box next to the disappearing produce. The few hunks that I shared the hall with were my secret Pack-Men. It was always a treat to see any of them up and about as well with their towels bravely wrapped snuggly around their cinched waists, though I was always too terrified to even make eye contact as I quickly glided through my maze.
Roommate always slept through my grooming ritual for the most part. The antiquated, oversized window A/C unit provided a generous helping of white noise that worked in his favor. He was a nice guy that happened to get coupled to a not so nice guy that had many issues, least of which were those related to his bratty, spoiled attitude.
The warm light from the two lamp wall mounted fixture over the mirror was sufficient to primp by and ample enough to see a ghost’s grave mistake upon returning from the shower on this particular August morn.
“What the hell?”
That’s all I knew to say as I peered into the unframed looking glass. I sheepishly moved closer in, unsure of actually touching the lower half of my face before instantly realizing what had occurred, why it had, and what all of it could mean for me as an uncomfortable resident of this recently assembled ship of young men.
There is a very good reason you launder new towels before using them the first time.
You know how on Halloween you sometimes see the child dressed up as a swashbuckling pirate? Usually, his pre-pubescent jawbone is readily smeared with inexpensive theatrical make-up. Something the likes of gothic eye-liner or black licorice scented marker hashed on liberally from ear to ear. The look of thick facial hair never is all that successful since there’s no depth or texture to the illusion.
I couldn’t take my eyes off of my 17 year old face, knowing that I had achieved the same but better results without even trying. And it wasn’t just on my face. It was all over me in bizarre concentrated webs. But by far, my face was the worst. It was as if every minutely raised fingerling of stubble was supporting a small but critical component of an ecosystem of freshly-dyed black cotton scrim.
I don’t remember much afterwards. How I removed the residual stringiness from my body, I’ll never know. Thankfully, I was able to quickly re-materialize my self esteem before venturing out beyond the grid unnoticed. Over time, I realized I wasn’t the only one on campus (or in my dorm) who was totally self-engrossed and far from being all grown up despite the fact that I had all the necessities of getting there.
I’m fairly certain I made time to do laundry that same evening after consulting with my Mother over the phone regarding what temperature to wash black towels.
