I was forced, today, to go way out of my comfort zone. Into a place that just feels wrong on so many levels.
I went for a shower – that’s not the bit that’s out of my comfort zone – but needed a clean towel. I went to get my towel. I could not find my towel. It now turns out it was downstairs on the clothes horse, but at the point when I was naked and had one wet leg because I had already stepped into the shower I couldn’t find it. And the panic set in. Hot sweats, shortness of breath. General all-round panic.
I had to just settle on a towel.
It’s not even a “guest” towel. It’s just a random towel from the bottom of the blanket box. Way below clean sheets, pillow cases and other assorted linens. The bottom of the blanket box where we don’t go for any reason at all. We don’t even know what’s there.
I still don’t know how I feel about it, to be honest. I used it. But it didn’t feel right. Which, I appreciate, sounds weird. But your body grows to know how your towel feels. And with this one it was screaming “Stranger Danger!” from the get go.
Obviously, that could have been me, transferring my feelings of unease onto the towel. But that sounds like crazy talk. Whereas my body not recognising the cotton loops which were drying my body is exactly the sort of top notch explanation that I am known for.
And it’s white.
Which is a huge no-no because I can open a flesh wound with a razor just by looking at it. I can’t be given a white towel which I will bleed all over, profusely, so that it looks like it’s been used to clean up a murder scene.
This sort of stuff is precisely why people hate Mondays…