I once folded a pile of clean towels.
Promptly, which was strange. They usually sit in a heap on some unsuspecting surface -- couch; bed; bassinet -- until the surface is needed for a replacing load of darks or delicates. But not this pile; it was folded while the towels still clung greedily to the dryer's warmth.
And the way I fold towels is something to behold. It takes a certain class of perfectionist to make sure no two blue towels are together, but that the growing tower of mismatched towels are in a sort of succession of color. Blue, yellow, purple, white, blue, yellow, purple...
I'm very particular. It's quite necessary. I haven't figured out why, yet, but still.
So this stack of warm, clean towels were folded. On our love seat. (Because if towels don't say love...) Then, I did what any right-minded girl would do with such a stack. I left them there. Later in the afternoon, they were toppled during the daily seating-area-as-trampoline match-up: the preschooler in this corner, the kindergartner in this corner.
Blame was placed. Help was demanded. Towels were fixed.
I carried half of the stack to the front bathroom along with an assortment of fine washcloths. The other half languished, cold and rumpled, in their regurgitated stack. On the coffee table. (Because if towels don't say kick your feet up...)
The sun set. The sun rose. Twice. (Then once more.)
The stack was in the way of a coloring sheet and plate of strawberries on the coffee table, and the linen closet was, perhaps, a few too many steps in the wrong direction. So the stack was relocated, again. To the back of the couch. (Because if towels don't remind you of a stylish, knit throw on the sofa's rear...)
And as I sit here typing, the towels rebuke me. They are growing flat with helplessness. Any fluff of promise has departed along with my assertion of good housekeeping skills.
If it weren't for the satisfaction of a nicely distributed color assortment (blue, yellow, blue, beige), I'd consider throwing the lot of them back into the dryer for another chance at perfection.
As it is, I'll probably shuffle them to the ottoman. That's at least seven steps closer to the linen closet.
I certainly won't make any promises, though; I once folded a pile of clean towels, but the rest is up to fate.