I was in the middle of an argument with my sister. She insisted that towels should never be washed with regular clothes.

But I’ve always done it. It saves time.

That’s exactly what I told her.

“Sylvie, you’re overthinking this,” I said, tossing my gym shirts and a couple of towels into the washer.

She folded her arms and gave me that look. “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. We wear them, sweat in them, and wash them. It’s not that deep.”

Sylvie shook her head, clearly annoyed. She’s always been the meticulous one. I’m more… let’s say, efficient.

But then, a few days later, something odd happened.

I pulled out my favorite navy-blue blouse—one I wore to work all the time—and noticed it was covered in tiny white fuzz. I sighed, picked off what I could, and wore it anyway. No big deal.

The next day, my black leggings looked different. They had little pills and were already starting to look worn out—and I’d only had them 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 brushed it off. Probably just bad luck.

Then came the real eye-opener.

One Saturday morning, I did laundry like usual—towels and clothes together. But when I pulled them out, my favorite cream sweater had shrunk.

Not just a little. I mean shrunk. It looked like it belonged to a middle schooler.

I stared at it, a sinking feeling in my chest. That sweater wasn’t cheap, and I’d only worn it twice.

Just then, Sylvie walked into the laundry room. She saw me holding the tiny sweater and didn’t say a word. Just raised her eyebrows.

“I know, I know,” I muttered. “Don’t say it.”

She shrugged. “You can save time—or you can save your clothes.”

Her tone wasn’t smug. It was calm. Which somehow made it worse.

That night, I did some digging online.
Turns out she was right.

Towels are made from thicker, rougher materials. They hold more water, which makes the spin cycle harder—and rougher—on delicate fabrics. Plus, the lint? Very real. Lighter materials like cotton and synthetics don’t stand a chance.

Basically, I’d been wrecking my wardrobe for the sake of saving twenty minutes.

The next weekend, I changed my routine.
Towels in one load. Clothes in another.

And it made a difference. My clothes started lasting longer. The colors stayed brighter. Everything felt fresher and newer.

Sylvie noticed immediately. “Finally joined the dark side, huh?”

I laughed. “You were right.”

She grinned. “I usually am.”

But the story doesn’t end there.

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 with water slowly pooling around it.

“Did you check the filter?” I asked.

She bit her lip. “Wait… there’s a filter?”

I sighed, grabbed a flashlight, and pulled off the bottom panel. The filter was packed solid—with lint. Clumps of towel fuzz, fabric bits, even some coins.

We spent the next hour cleaning it out.

As we worked, Sylvie looked embarrassed. “Guess all my perfectly separated loads weren’t so perfect after all.”

I smiled. “No one’s perfect. We all mess up.”

She chuckled. “Okay, okay. I’ll stay on top of the filter from now on.”

That moment stuck with me.

We all have blind spots. I thought I was being efficient. Sylvie thought she was being careful. In the end, we both had something to learn.

Sometimes, it’s not about being right or wrong. It’s about being open—to advice, to learning, and to helping each other out when life doesn’t go as planned.

Now, laundry day has become an inside joke between us.
We FaceTime while folding clothes, swap tips, and laugh about how seriously we used to argue about something so small.

But still, I think about it every time I’m tempted to cut corners—whether in laundry or in life.

Because saving time now? Isn’t worth ruining something valuable later.