When a towel is not a towel

I have a yoga towel. Nothing special- a fairly thick beach towel that I bought at Costco for fifteen bucks a few years ago. I store it in my closet, away from the family towels, so that I always have it when I go to yoga in town.

It covers my yoga mat perfectly.

It has pineapples on it.

The kids all know it’s my yoga towel. I try to take care of the washing of it but sometimes it gets mixed in with the regular towels. They know if it comes through the wash they’re supposed to put it in our bedroom instead of the linen closet. This actually happens sometimes, depending on which kid finds it, how much they care, and whether or not they’re currently pissed off at me.

A while back, while frantically searching for my towel to take to class, I found it. In the kids’ bathroom. With muddy dog prints all over it.

At least, I hope that was mud.

So I grabbed another towel. It was a thin, innocuous-looking beach towel. A bit girly for my taste- kind of looked like there might be butterflies on it, but I thought, what the hell.

A towel is a towel, right? If I’m worried about my damn towel in yoga class I clearly have more serious issues.

And I did, in fact, have more serious issues, as I discovered when I got to class and flung the towel out over my mat.

Namaste.