paper towels

Last night I was reminded of this story, and I just wanted to share:


We roadtripped for 10 days. We drove for more than 3,000 miles, from North Carolina, to Tennessee, Arkansas, Texas, Louisiana, Alabama, Florida, Georgia, South Carolina and back. Ten days in the car, just the two of us. We did a lot of talking, even more singing and we developed a case of kleptomania.

I've always been one to take the soaps and shampoo, pens and lotions from hotel rooms. I would never take towels or things of real value, but for some reason, I've forever felt entitled to the things that they would replace anyway if I hadn't taken them -- might as well put it to good use, I say. Waste not, want not, I say. He made fun of me a little that first morning in the hotel when I stuffed the lotion into my purse.

But then we went to the Peabody Hotel in Memphis, just to take a look at the ducks. The hotel is gorgeous, mission style furniture, stained glass, dark wood, marble floors and white flower arrangements. We each went to the bathroom. They're beautiful. Granite countertops, gold fixtures and these glorious luxury paper towels. We each walked out with three. They went promptly into the glove box. Only to be used in emergencies. These things are way too nice for just runny noses and random McDonald's spills. These are our special towels. And so begins our obsession.

Further into our trip, we're in Charleston. We stop to pee in a hotel after a day wandering around what has become one of our favorite cities. We come out of the bathroom, and walk out of the hotel. He takes my hand as we cross the street, walking his fingers up my right arm to my purse. Finding the zipper, he opens the bag and slyly shoves luxury hotel bathroom towels into my purse. "Who are you?" I ask. I've turned him into a towel snatcher.

Our trip ended and we'd filled the glove box with towels. Memorabilia from the multiplicity of nice hotels we'd peed in, but never slept at.

Two months later, we're in Boston saying goodbye. We had walked all day, through the public gardens and the common, lunch in Fanuiel Hall, dinner on Newbury Street and now it was time to pee. We stopped at a hotel a few blocks from Fenway. It was beautiful.

Marble. Dark-stained hardwood. Flower arrangements larger than the wingback chairs in my parents' house. The kind of place with nice paper towels.

I smile to the doorman as we walk by. He knows our purpose, but doesn't hesitate. We're two good looking 20-somethings, harmless and handsome. Holding hands as we walk in. We're blending. We're fitting in. We belong here. Hell, we go to Elon, half of my 9:25 a.m. Media History class has probably stayed here, so who's to say we couldn't be guests?

The bathroom is spectacular as I expected. I pee, walk to the beautiful Corian countertop to wash my hands. And there they are. The lux towels. They're perfect, thick paper towels that are so nice they feel like cloth. They're Peabody towels, but from Boston. I should grab some. No. No. I shouldn't do it. I can't, we've moved passed our spring break kleptomania.

After some mental sommersaults, I walk out of the bathroom empty handed. He takes my hand and we walk back out, fitting in as before, past the doorman and on to the street.

"Did you take the towels?" I asked once we were about half a block down the street.

"What? Of course not," he turns, his smile lighting up as he reaches to the big pocket on his khaki cargo shorts, which now, I notice, is bulging with four paper towels.

writing down the bones

More than once in my life I've been told that when I'm having a problem, I should write about it. Journaling has always been cathartic to me, but I realized recently after talking to other people about their journaling habits, that I only write for myself (read: in a tiny hand-written journal that no one reads) when I'm upset or going through something that's causing me anxiety or stress.

I rarely, if ever, write for myself when I'm happy.

As a result, I have journal upon journal full of angst, sadness and in some cases, anger. These journals contain the bones of bad relationships, uncomfortable situations, awkward encounters and ugly moments. They harbor all the yuck. All the icky in my life.

I'm naturally a worrier. Even when things are going well for me, I worry. I look ahead with that strange mom-complex that women tend to have and I see the worst. I'm working on it. Trust me. And journaling helps.

McKenzie and I were talking yesterday about what should be done to or with old journals. She rereads hers. She likes to go back through and re-experience with new perspective. Her mom, she said, burns old journals to release their contents back into the world. I love the cycle of it, and the karmic nature of that approach. But I do neither. I cannot bring myself to re-experience what I've written, and I cannot bring myself to part with it at the same time. Having that grave for the bones, for me, something I know is there, but don't have to revisit if I can't, serves as a reminder of the memories the books hold. I don't have to dig them up to know what they are.

I haven't really been journaling for myself lately, and that's generally a good sign. But I think I'm going to start. McKenzie used the metaphor of doctors: People only go to the doctor's when they're sick, she said, but sometimes a check up when you're healthy, to prevent the sickness, is really good.

I think she's right.