Handtowels. They seem so insignificant, but they mean the world to me. Especially when they are NONEXISTENT.
Picture this. I’m visiting a friend’s house. I have to pee. I shut the door, relieve myself, go to the sink to wash my hands and
FUCK. There’s no fucking handtowel.
And this means that I am forced to emerge from your bathroom with dripping-wet seemingly pee-soaked hands, which I inefficiently banish by rubbing on my skirt/pants/dress/leggings. Congratulations, friend, you have successfully doomed the next 20 minutes of my life to distracting, clammy-thigh hell. All by choosing to buy that cactus at Ikea over a multipack of friggin handtowels.
You could have the dirtiest, cat-furriest house ever, and I wouldn’t be bothered. Not if you had one single handtowel in your bathroom. Because to me, that says “I care.”
I know what you’re thinking. That bath towel that you hang over the door is not a giant version of a handtowel. You know you just wiped your private parts all over that thing nearly 8 hours ago. So yea, don’t just assume your house guests will happily wipe their clean hands all over your dirty, damp bath towel.
From this point forward, I will rate my friends and significant others on the status of whether or not they keep a handtowel in their bathroom. Extra points if they are clean and dry. (Presently, I am cringing at the memory of a long-gone boyfriend from Allston who definitely did not own a handtowel OR any clean bathtowels for that matter… and I am smiling fondly at a recent boyfriend’s Mom who always kept about 60 handtowels all on the same rod (it defied physics, I tell you). )