The meaning of napkins

When I was in my twenties and started living on my own, I adopted a very minimalist style of home decor. Martha Stewart I was not. In the living room of my first apartment, I had a lawn chair, a tv tray, and a small television that sat on a milk crate. That was it.

I occasionally cooked, but often I just threw a pre-packaged, plastic-encased dinner into the microwave. No frills dining. When I lived in that first apartment of mine, I certainly did not purchase something as luxurious as napkins. Rather, I might pull a sheet off a roll of paper towels if my face needed wiping. Or maybe I would take one of my hand towels I used for drying dishes and use it, if I had forgotten to purchase paper towels. In dire circumstances, I recall that I might have even once or twice, not wiped my face off at all while eating, and I just waited until the end of the meal to wash my face in the bathroom. Or maybe even used my sleeves. This is how twenty-something men live, when they live alone, untouched by the civilizing influence of more sophisticated companionship.

Now many years later, I have realized that I have undergone a peculiar transformation. When people come to my apartment now for meals, one of the things they comment on are my napkins. I have become renowned for the napkins I dispense at mealtime. When I entertain guests no dull white napkins for them, but instead they get to wipe their mouths on serviettes I have spent many minutes contemplating the purchase of at Mia Home, the swankiest kitchen store in Bishkek. People even bring me napkins as gifts: a very dear colleague brought me special napkins commemorating the 150th Anniversary of Canada after returning from her vacation in the Great North, because she knew her gift would bring me tremendous satisfaction.

What has happened to me and why did this bizarre personality switch take place? When was it that I started channeling the personality of my late Great-Grandmother Julia Wells, queen of napkins, vinegar cruets, Hors d'oeuvre forks, decorative salt and pepper shakers, and pickle trays? Really shouldn't I be purchasing power drills and hammers and nails and adjustable wrenches like my Grandfather Krauss, handyman about the house? I am simply baffled.

I have no plausible explanation for this phenomenon. Perhaps the passing of time washes away one's barbaric impulses and steers one toward refinement. Or maybe all my years of working in higher education and my constant exposure to the liberal arts has truly brought me enlightenment in all realms of life. Or maybe I just got tired of laundering stains out of my dish towels and off my shirtsleeves. Who knows?

I wish I could go back for a moment to meet that twenty-something person I once was. I wonder what other radical changes, besides what I use to wipe my mouth, I would notice between this me and that me. How many more subtle changes in my behavior have I not even perceived over time? People change like the face of the mountains; the change is imperceptible on a daily basis and is usually never noticed unless the shift in personality is something dramatic like an avalanche. As I sit and look at my napkins, I wonder about me and hope that the gradual changes in who I am have been somewhat graceful and for the better. If nothing else, I know that the quality of my dining experience has improved inexplicably, and every so slightly, over time.