Layce and I were at the department store looking for new bath towels. We started first with picking out colors that would go with the bathroom.
“How about these?” I asked, holding up a bath sheet. A bath sheet appeared to be a bath towel built like a Hummer.
“I don’t want a bath towel…” Layce said.
“It’s a bath sheet not a bath towel,” I interjected, unraveling one to take a look at what made a bath sheet so much different from a bath towel.
“With a flag on it,” Layce finished. “Or an alligator or a horse.”
“So no bath sheets with logos. Got it.” I continued my search moving over to the Martha Stewart Home Collection. Martha evidently didn’t believe in logos. I checked out the price—18.99. A bit high but not completely unreasonable, until Layce told me we needed six.
“Why do we need six? One set on the rack, one set to replace, wash, trade out. The other two are just sitting there taking up room.” I noticed that it was a bath towel that was 18.99 not a bath sheet. Now, I had to figure out if I was holding up a bath sheet or a bath towel. I measured it against myself. Yes, I was definitely holding a bath sheet—a 29.99 bath sheet.
Layce stared, with evident hostility, at a hand towel. “This hand towel is 16.99. That’s highway robbery for a hand towel.”
“I think it’s an oversized hand towel.”
Layce stood glaring at the shelves of towels as if they were foes to be vanquished. It was time to leave.
“Maybe we better leave off the towels for now and go look at pillows, maybe we’ll have better luck with pillows,” I suggested.
I tried to refold the towels as best I could, which wasn’t good, and went to find Layce.
I found her jabbing a finger at a pillow. “This is a 200.00 dollar pillow!”
I gave it a poke. It didn’t seem to be that special. “Well, we definitely won’t be buying three of those. Or do we need six?”
Layce narrowed her eyes at me.
“They have other pillows. Here look at this one,” I said trying to divert her attention.
“I’m mad at this store. We’re not buying anything and just for having overpriced bath sheets, oversized hand towels and two hundred dollar pillows, we’re keeping our pillows and towels. That’ll teach them.”
I refrained from saying ‘but they won’t know.’ I know, well, most times, okay just sometimes, I know, when to keep my mouth shut.
We walked by the food court. “Let’s have lunch,” Layce said.
“But what about the PBJ sandwiches I packed?” I said. I hadn’t known if we’d have time for lunch before heading home. I was prepared for this scenario as I am prepared for most scenarios, having a minimum of six contingency plans. Subsequently, I packed sandwiches.
“Okay, I mean, if sitting in a cold car eating a PBJ sandwich is better for you, then by all means.”
I looked around. I wasn’t mad at the food court. I had the world of food at my disposal. Had I lost my senses? This was so much better. “We can always have them for dinner.”
“Sure. Let’s go get some bourbon chicken.”
By the way we had the PBJ sandwiches for dinner in the warm house and without the delicious smells of the food court. We showered using our old towels and fell asleep on the same pillows. Ah, for victory.