I Take Linen Towels to the Gym

There’s a saying people like to repeat with a tone of quiet authority: how you do anything is how you do everything.

It’s usually delivered as wisdom. Occasionally as a warning. Say it with enough confidence and it sounds like a law of human nature, simple, explanatory, tidy. It reassures people that if you understand one corner of someone, you’ve unlocked the whole floor plan.

I’ve always found it persuasive. And also completely unworkable.

Because if it were true in any literal sense, I would be an extremely confusing person.

There are parts of my life where I’m almost comically particular. Not aspirationally particular. Not curated. Just decided. Settled. Closed for discussion.

For example: I use only linen towels.

Linen towels are not a preference. They’re a conclusion, reached once, supported by evidence, and not accepting follow-up questions.

I buy them. I use them. I replace them when necessary. I take them with me to the gym. I’m aware that this is unusual. I’m also unmoved. Linen towels are best. I decided this once and haven’t revisited the decision.

This isn’t how I do everything. It’s how I do towels.

I use only linen towels because they’re lightweight, 100% linen, better for skin and hair, and unlike terry, they don’t slowly deteriorate into something tired, patchy, and faintly resentful.

Beyond linen towels – overhead lighting

It’s not just my love for linen that illustrates this. There’s also my hatred of overhead lighting.

I won’t tolerate it in my home. Not a little. Not briefly. Not as a compromise. Overhead lighting in New York City apartments gets installed by buildings, not humans, and it shows. It’s unflattering, unforgiving, and manages to make even pleasant rooms feel like places where you’re about to be asked for insurance information.

I don’t negotiate with it. I don’t get used to it. I remove it from the equation entirely. Lamps exist. Lamps are sufficient. The matter is closed.

That’s how I approach lighting, just as linen towels are how I handle drying myself.

Alongside these very specific and borderline unreasonable preferences, I’m also deeply stable. I show up. I keep my word. I don’t flake. I don’t disappear. I don’t create chaos in other people’s lives. I pay attention and I follow through.

These facts coexist without friction.

If how I did anything were truly how I did everything, my entire personality would be a problem.

The saying persists because it gestures at something real. Patterns exist. Energy carries. People do have recognizable ways of moving through the world. It’s comforting and even powerful to believe there’s an easy answer to human nature.

But the trouble begins when we confuse patterns with principles, and coherence with truth.

Human beings aren’t theories. We’re situational. We operate in modes. We’re exacting in some areas and expansive in others. People can care deeply about one small thing – say, linen towels – and be remarkably relaxed about another without apology.

For a long time, I thought this required explanation.

Now I don’t.

When I care about something, I care decisively. I don’t hedge. I don’t revisit the decision endlessly. Linen towels and overhead lighting fall squarely into this category.

I once saw an interview with Barack Obama where he explained that he wore essentially the same thing every day. I rearranged my lamps shortly afterward.

When I don’t care, I don’t pretend to. I let indifference remain exactly what it is.

This isn’t inconsistency. It’s calibration.

What linen towels say about real life and being human

The idea that “how you do anything is how you do everything” assumes that attention, seriousness, and meaning should be evenly distributed across a life. That every preference must signal character. That intensity in one area implies intensity everywhere.

But that’s not how people actually live.

There are corners of my life where I’m ritualistic and corners where I’m improvisational. When I’m in one mode, I’m fully there. When I’m in another, I am just as committed. I experience this as compartmentalization with strong walls and clear purposes; walls sturdy enough to hold linen towels on one side and emotional steadiness on the other.

What exhausts people is the demand that everything be legible. That every habit explain every other habit. That nothing be allowed to exist simply because it works.

Linen towels: Unnecessary, Undeniable, Unperformative

Unnecessary things are a quiet rebellion against this.

An unnecessary thing does not justify itself. It doesn’t need consensus. It doesn’t invite interpretation. You recognize it, decide, and move on.

Undeniable things work the same way.

And then there are the unperformative things.

These are choices made without an audience in mind. They’re not ironic. These decisions aren’t aspirational. They’re not meant to be admired or replicated.

These are private settlements.

My life enveloped in linen and rarely lit from above

The more I allow these kinds of decisions into my life, the quieter everything gets. Not smaller—quieter. Less narration. Less translation.

This doesn’t make me simpler. It makes me more exact.

The compulsion to perform coherence—to make sure every part of you aligns neatly with every other part—is a form of social anxiety dressed up as wisdom.

But consistency is not the same thing as integrity.

Integrity has more to do with accuracy than uniformity. With allowing different parts of yourself to operate according to their own logic, without forcing them to justify each other.

I don’t need my linen towels to mean anything about my reliability and I don’t connect my reliability to my lighting preferences. They coexist without commentary.

These days, I’m less interested in what looks intentional from the outside and more interested in what feels settled on the inside. I pay attention to the decisions I no longer argue with.

Linen towels and lamps are simply visible evidence of a much larger arrangement, one that doesn’t require explanation to anyone, including me.

They are the things that remain when no one is watching and the ones that quietly make your real life feel like it belongs to you.

Crone Advice from Kflo

Why take advice from me? As a rule, advice is crap – I agree. But as a 55 year old New Yorker, I’ve seen some things. I also promise to give your question thoughtful consideration. It’s juicy stuff to reflect upon after you’ve completely ignored my advice.