Can I ever have too many? I throw them around with decadent abandon. I celebrate towels! They're functional. They're a luxury. They can be worn. They thrive on contact with humanity. They're the confidantes of our intimacies. Our first aid. Our companions at the beach. They live to serve. Life before terrycloth must have been dismal; I hesitate to call it civilization. I like thick fluffy white ones, their suggestion of virgin snow, of freshly minted clouds, only excites my profligacy. Don't give me designer towels in cobalt and persimmon and toast. Beige brings me down. Avacado makes me angry. I want my pure, highly refined white Egyptian cotton towel drug. And lots of it.