Most guys have one. Most often cotton, it comes in a variety of colors, both solids and prints. Of great utility, both increased efficiency and better sleep are properties it endows. Kept under the bed or in a nearby drawer, it is something shared with only the most intimate of acquaintances. And although there should be no shame in its ownership, it is something about which there is little to no conversation, even amongst the closest of friends.
It is "the buddy".
The buddy is around to clean up those messes that occur, for some, first thing in the morning; for others, on those nights when one is just a little too restless to sleep; and, for some, both times and more. More convenient than catching a mess in one's hand and then running to the bathroom, and less sticky than rubbing a mess into one's leg, or abdomen, or chest, or face, and simply easier than a last minute switch to a halasana position, the buddy is just a necessity.
Last Saturday, when gathering laundry from the past week I was just about to go around the corner to do the wash when a call came with a brunch opportunity that couldn't be missed. Emptying the pocket of quarters, out the door with my laundry I still went, but instead of doing the wash, it was dropped off. Included in the bag was my buddy.
It's with great care that previously my buddy was only washed by my own hands. Buddy doesn't get a regular weekly treatment. Buddy is washed maybe once a month and by this time he's stinky and a little crusty in places. As the laundry ladies already have enough reasons to talk about me, remembering that buddy was in the big pink laundry bag was slightly traumatizing, but rationalized away in that, within the bigger picture, Buddy would probably slip into the machine unnoticed.
Arriving to the laundromat, my smile met the gaze of the lady behind the counter, who, without me presenting my ticket, immediately grabbed the big pink laundry bag. Remarking upon her memory, I paid as she gave a knowing smile. Unsure of my standing with her, I tipped a little more than usual, but remained steadfast because, when it comes down to it, shame is not really something with which I have a compatibility.
Once home, the laundry was put away. As the thread-bare blue towel with a jukebox image, originally purchased in Hilton Head, South Carolina came out of the bag, it was addressed: "Buddy, I hope that wasn't too embarrassing for you. It won't happen again."
