At one point it became very important for me to acquire towels and sheets and other linens. Important in a way which marked my comfort level as a person – enough fluffy towels in my closet would indicate I had some stability in my home. Many sets of sheets proved my bed a source of luxury. Unable to afford genuine quality items, I instead set a quantity goal – making frequent trips to Woolworth’s or Target to acquire additional bath towels, washcloths, pillowcases.
I know this desire’s moment of origin: my junior year roommate, who never had to want, showed up on move-in day with a laundry basket stuffed with whites. “I think I might have taken too many” she said. “My mom said – ‘you can have those over there’ and there was a small pile of towels and then this basket. So I took this basket. But, she can always buy more.”
Her towels, sheets, pillowcases, comforters, blankets, washcloths and hand towels filled our linen closet. I tucked my four towels (one from home, three from the drugstore) in to open corners. I wondered if I could possibly fold them differently to make them look like – more. Instead I added my one extra blanket to the pile. Now I had five items in the closet. I added my one spare set of sheets. At least it was something.
If I forgot to bring my pillows home with me on school breaks, I slept either with my head on the mattress, or on a folded pair of jeans. “Can you get me a pillow, please – that I can keep at home?” I asked my mom. I couldn’t afford one – my 20 hour-a-week job barely covered food and rent. If we had a cold month and the gas bill was high, then I had to sell back books in order to eat. Buying an extra pillow to keep at home was low on my priority list. “Maybe we can get you one for Christmas,” my mom replied. They didn’t. Later I discovered that shortly before we’d had this conversation my grandmother had sent me a $500 check. It was supposed to be a gift – my sister who was also in college had received the same amount. “It was lucky she sent it, because we had some unexpected bills I wasn’t sure how we were going to pay,” my mother said. “It was very lucky she sent that money. I was able to give your sister some of her check because I figured, since you have a job, you didn’t need it as much. But I promise I will make it up to you.” She sounded amazingly sincere when she promised, and her eyes filled with tears. I never saw any of the money, but at my dad’s insistence I wrote my grandmother a thank-you note anyway, so she wouldn’t think her generous gift had been lost in the mail.
After I discovered how comforting it was to buy towels and blankets – even tiny, rough, ten-dollar ones – I realized buying underwear was even less expensive and almost as reassuring. I filled my drawer with garish polyester panties. Most of it bunched and one pair strangely twisted, but the site of a full drawer of – well, drawers – made me happy. At least I had an abundance of something. I also collected dishtowels – terribly ugly ones sold at the grocery store. “Where did we get this thing?” one of my roommates asked – holding up a yellow and white towel depicting a chicken wearing an apron. “It’s mine,” I said, somewhat proudly. “You realize it’s to thin it doesn’t even dry” she responded. I didn’t care – quantity was more vital than usability. Besides, she didn’t own any dishtowels. Her life was obviously less comfortable than mine.
Over the years, I’ve amassed a contented collection of linens. In addition to several different sheet sets for my bed, our guest bed, our fold-out sofa and now our baby crib, I also sleep with 5 pillows on my bed (3 for me, 2 for the husband) and rest happily knowing our guest bed has an additional 4 plus there are 2 more oversized fluffy pillows tucked in our blanket chest. Our sole couch has 6 throw-pillows, and I have enough flannel throws to hand a few out as Christmas presents. Our bathrooms are filled with several small mountains of towels, including the oversized full-body sort and enough beach towels for at least three families. No member of my house shall ever have to do without a soft pillow, or a clean sheet, or even a comforter or two.
As I collect, I know I am still trying to fill that linen closet in my memory – to stuff in more of my own blankets around my roommate's; to erase the memories of sleeping on a pair of jeans in my parents’ house. It is my own private competition, to build my shelves of plenty.
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the above is almost completely unedited. I know there are flaws. If you read this, I would appreciate comments. Any of them - critical is great.
this entry goes hand-in-hand with 'write, dammit.'