I was arguing with my sister about laundry. She kept insisting that towels should never be washed with regular clothing.
But I always washed them together. It saved time, and I couldn’t see the problem.
“That’s exactly what I told her,” I thought as I tossed a few gym shirts and towels into the washer.
“Sylvie, you’re overthinking it,” I said, confident.
Her arms folded, and she gave me that look. “Mara, you’re damaging your clothes. Towels are thick and shed lint. They rub against softer fabrics and wear them out faster.”
I rolled my eyes. “They’re clothes. We wear them, sweat in them, wash them. It’s not a big deal.”
Sylvie shook her head, irritated as always. She’s meticulous; I’m more… efficient.
But then the consequences started appearing.
First, my favorite navy-blue blouse was covered in tiny white fuzz. I brushed it off, still thinking it wasn’t a big deal.
Then my black leggings began to pill and look worn out after just a few months. Sylvie’s words echoed in my head: Towels rub against softer fabrics. They wear out faster.
I told myself it was coincidence.
Then came the final blow. One Saturday, after washing towels and clothes together, I pulled out my favorite cream sweater—completely shrunken. Only worn twice, now ruined.
Sylvie walked in, raised her eyebrows, and I muttered, “I know, don’t say it.”
“You can save time, or you can save your clothes,” she said matter-of-factly.
I felt stung but decided to research. I learned that towels are made from thick, abrasive materials. They hold water, making the spin cycle harsher, and the lint issue is real. Over time, the friction damages softer fabrics. I realized I had been slowly destroying my clothes just to save a few minutes of sorting.
The next weekend, I separated the loads. Towels went in one, clothes in another. My garments lasted longer, colors stayed vibrant, fabrics stayed soft.
Sylvie noticed immediately. “Finally joined the dark side?” she teased.
I laughed. “You were right.”
A few weeks later, she called me in a panic—her washing machine wouldn’t drain. At her apartment, we found the filter clogged with lint, fabric fuzz, and even coins. After an hour of cleaning, she looked embarrassed.
“Guess all my perfectly separated loads weren’t so perfect after all,” she admitted.
I smiled. “Nobody’s perfect. We all mess up.”
From then on, laundry day became a running joke. We FaceTime while folding, trade tips, and laugh at how seriously we once argued over something so small.
I also learned a lesson beyond laundry: cutting corners, whether in chores or life, isn’t worth ruining something valuable in the long run.