I was right in the middle of an argument with my sister. She was absolutely convinced that towels should never be washed together with regular clothes.
I told her that I’d always done it that way. It saves time, plain and simple.
“Sylvie, you’re overthinking this,” I said, tossing my gym shirts and a couple of towels into the washing machine without a second thought.
She crossed her arms and gave me that look that said she was about to lecture me. “Mara, you’re ruining your clothes. Towels are heavy and they shed lint. They rub against softer fabrics and make them wear out faster.”
I rolled my eyes. “They’re just clothes, Sylvie. We wear them, sweat in them, and wash them. It’s not that deep.”
She shook her head, clearly irritated. She’s always been the careful one in the family. I’ve always been more of the get-it-done type.
But a few days later, something strange happened.
I pulled my favorite navy-blue blouse from the laundry basket—the one I wear to work all the time—and noticed tiny white fuzz clinging all over it. I groaned, picked off what I could, and wore it anyway. No big deal, or so I thought.
The next day, I noticed my black leggings looked different. They had little fabric pills forming on them already, even though I’d only owned them for a few months.
I didn’t want to admit it, but Sylvie’s voice echoed in my head:
Towels rub against softer fabrics. They wear out faster.
Still, I shrugged it off. Probably just a coincidence.
Then came the moment that changed everything.
It was a quiet Saturday morning. I tossed my usual mix of towels and clothes into the washer, hit start, and went about my day. When the cycle finished, I pulled everything out—and froze.
My favorite cream sweater had shrunk. Not slightly. Completely. It looked like it would barely fit a child.
My stomach dropped. That sweater had cost more than I should’ve spent, and I’d only worn it twice.
Just then, Sylvie walked into the laundry room. She saw me holding the shrunken sweater and didn’t say a word. She just lifted an eyebrow, the corners of her mouth twitching.
“I know, I know,” I muttered. “Don’t say it.”
She smiled faintly. “You can save time—or you can save your clothes.”
Her tone wasn’t smug, which somehow made it sting even more.
That night, I decided to do some research. I scrolled through articles, forums, and laundry blogs, and every single one of them said the same thing: Sylvie was right.
Towels are made from thicker, rougher materials that hold more water, which makes the spin cycle tougher on delicate fabrics. The friction wears clothes out faster, and the lint? Oh, the lint is very real. Softer fabrics like cotton, synthetics, and especially wool don’t stand a chance.
I realized I’d been slowly ruining my wardrobe just to save twenty minutes.
So the next weekend, I changed my routine.
Towels in one load. Clothes in another.
And I noticed the difference almost immediately. My shirts looked newer, the colors stayed brighter, and everything just felt cleaner.
Sylvie noticed too. “Finally joined the dark side, huh?” she teased.
I laughed. “You were right.”
She smirked. “I usually am.”
But life has a way of keeping things balanced.
A few weeks later, Sylvie called me in a panic.
“Mara, can you come over? The washing machine won’t drain!”
When I got to her apartment, she was standing in front of the washer, water pooling around it.
“Did you check the filter?” I asked.
Her eyes widened. “Wait… there’s a filter?”
I sighed, grabbed a flashlight, and knelt down to open the bottom panel. The filter was packed—completely stuffed with lint, towel fuzz, bits of fabric, and even a few coins.
We spent an hour cleaning it out together, laughing and groaning the whole time.
As we worked, she looked a little sheepish. “Guess all my perfectly separated loads weren’t so perfect after all.”
I grinned. “No one’s perfect, Sylvie. We all mess up.”
She chuckled. “Alright, alright. I’ll keep up with the filter from now on.”
That moment stuck with me.
We both had blind spots—mine was efficiency, hers was control. I thought I was being smart by saving time. She thought she was being smart by following every rule. But in the end, we both learned something valuable.
It wasn’t about who was right or wrong. It was about being open—to learning, to listening, and to helping each other when things don’t go as planned.
Now, laundry day is kind of a running joke between us. We FaceTime while folding clothes, swap stain-removal tips, and laugh about how serious we once got over a pile of towels.
But every time I’m tempted to take a shortcut—whether in laundry or in life—I think about that ruined sweater and Sylvie’s calm voice.
Because saving time in the moment is never worth losing something you care about later.