Wednesday, September 5, 2012

Like Life Was A Cold Wet Washcloth

I think I own one washcloth.  I know this is one of those “failure” things that, as an adult, shouldn’t be a part of my life.  I know I probably should own a dozen washcloths.  Or ten.  An adult amount.  Multiple.  

I might have three, but I only seem to find this one. 

The washcloth is really old.  I think it might even be a Barbie washcloth, but I can’t make out the image any more.  Or there might not even be an image.  Maybe it’s just really old and has saved stains and dirt from everyone it’s ever washed like a really gross Shroud of Turin. 

Tonight I used the washcloth to press against a sore part of my body.  I kept soaking it in hot water and wringing it out so it could be warm against my sore body place. (NOT MY VAGINA)  It kept losing its heat immediately, like it wanted nothing to do with me.  Hot, warm, cold.  Hot, warm, cold. 

I didn’t like it.  Why me?  Why, washcloth? Why?

I thought it would stay hot longer.  Maybe it was because the water at my house has faulty heat molecules.  Maybe the ancient washcloth strands don’t retain heat anymore.  Maybe there is new washcloth technology that might trap hot water more securely and I should purchase some.

Mostly I just felt like everything about trying to fix the sore part of my body was failing and that nobody, not even a hot water washcloth, cared enough to really help.  

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