Susan Brown Facebook ad: “Sale Ends Tonight”

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Am I the a**hole for stealing towels from a hotel and not feeling bad about it until they called me three days later? Before you judge me, hear me out. Because I think half of you have done this or thought about doing it, and the other half are lying. My husband booked us a weekend at a nice hotel in Charleston for our anniversary. Not the Four Seasons or anything. Just a nice place. The kind with the robes on the back of the door and the little soaps you don't want to open because the packaging is too pretty. We checked in Friday night. Long drive. I was tired. All I wanted was a shower and sleep. I got in the shower. Hot water. Good pressure. Steam filling up the whole bathroom. Nice. Then I turned off the water and reached for the towel. And I just stood there. I don't know how to describe what happened without sounding like I need medication. But the second I wrapped that towel around myself, something shifted. It was thick. Heavy. Not heavy like a burden. Heavy like a hug. Warm and plush and soft against my skin in a way that made me not want to move. I stood there in that hotel bathroom, bare feet on the tile, steam everywhere, wrapped up in this towel, and I thought: why doesn't my bathroom feel like this? I'm 46. I have been drying off with Target towels my entire adult life. Thin ones. Rough ones. The ones that feel okay for a week and then turn into sandpaper. The ones that shed lint all over my body so I have to shower to get rid of the stuff left on me after I shower. The ones my husband buys in a three-pack because he says towels are towels. Towels are not towels. I know that now. I knew it the second that hotel towel touched my skin. I used it again Saturday morning. Same feeling. Thick. Warm. That cloud-like softness where you just want to stand there with your eyes closed and not think about anything. My husband came out of the bathroom and said, "These towels are insane." First time in fourteen years of marriage he's commented on a towel. Saturday night. I used it again. Stood there again. Eyes closed. Thirty seconds of quiet where I wasn't somebody's wife or somebody's mom or somebody's employee. Just a woman wrapped in something soft. Sunday morning. Checkout day. I was packing our bags. My husband was downstairs settling the bill. And I looked at the towels on the rack. Two of them. White. Thick. Perfect. And I looked at my suitcase. And I thought about going home. About my bathroom. About the thin grey Target towels hanging on my rack that I've been meaning to replace for three years but never do because something else always comes first. The kids need shoes. The car needs tires. The dishwasher is making that noise again. The towels can wait. The towels can always wait. I looked at the hotel towels one more time. And I took them. Both of them. Rolled them up tight. Stuffed them in the bottom of my suitcase under my dirty clothes. Zipped it shut. Walked downstairs with my face perfectly arranged like nothing happened. I'm 46 years old. I have a mortgage and a 401k and a clean driving record. And I just committed towel theft at a hotel in Charleston on my wedding anniversary. We drove home. I didn't say anything. My husband didn't know. I put the hotel towels in the back of my bathroom closet like contraband. Behind the extra shampoo and the heating pad I never use. For three days, I used them. Every shower. Every morning. I'd reach past the Target towels on the rack and pull out the hotel ones from the closet and wrap myself up and just stand there. My little secret. My thirty seconds of feeling like a person who matters. Tuesday afternoon. My phone rings. Unknown number. I almost don't answer. "Hi, this is the front desk at the Belmond. You stayed with us over the weekend?" My stomach dropped through the floor. "We noticed two of our bath towels are missing from your room. Housekeeping flagged it during turnover." I wanted to die. I wanted the ground to open up and swallow me and my stolen towels and my entire existence. I started talking too fast. "I am so sorry. I don't know what came over me. I've never done anything like this in my life. I'll mail them back today. I'll pay for them. Whatever you want. I'm so sorry." The woman on the phone was quiet for a second. Then she laughed. "Ma'am. Relax. You're the third person this month." Third person this month. "We're not calling to press charges," she said. "We're calling because our manager started doing this thing where instead of charging guests for missing towels, we just tell them where to buy their own." "What?" "Our towels are from Onuia. They supply luxury hotels and spas. That's literally what they do. Same towels we use, same quality, and you can just buy them directly from their website." I was standing in my kitchen holding a phone, my face burning red, being given a shopping recommendation by a hotel employee who was being nicer to me than I deserved. "They're 600 to 800 GSM premium cotton with a refined terry weave," she said. "That's why they feel like that. That's why they don't go rough after washing. Regular towels use twisted fibers that get tighter and scratchier over time. These use a refined terry weave that stays soft. They actually get softer with every wash." "And honestly," she said, "they're running some kind of sale right now. Up to 60% off. So you might want to just order a set and mail ours back." I ordered a set before I hung up the phone. I mailed the hotel towels back the next morning. Priority shipping. With a note that said: "I'm sorry. And thank you. For everything." The Onuia towels arrived three days later. I put them on my rack. Moved the Target towels to the kids' bathroom. Took a shower. Reached for the new ones. Same feeling. Same weight. Same thick, warm, plush, cloud-like softness. That same Ritz Carlton feeling I felt in Charleston. But I'm standing in my own bathroom. In my own house. On a random Thursday. And I didn't steal them. My husband came out of the shower that night. Stopped in the doorway. "Did you get new towels?" "Yeah." "These feel like the hotel." "I know." "Why didn't we have these before?" Because you said towels are towels. Because the kids needed shoes. Because the car needed tires. Because the dishwasher was making that noise. Because I was never on my own list. Because I spent three years meaning to replace the thin rough ones and never did because something else always came first. "I don't know," I said. "But we have them now." First week. No lint. Not a single fiber on my body. I dried off and my skin was just clean. I didn't have to pick fuzz off my arms while getting dressed. I didn't have to shower after my shower. Just clean. Second week. My sister came over. Used the bathroom. Came out holding the hand towel against her face. "Where did you get these." Not a question. A demand. I sent her the link. She ordered a set from her car before she left my driveway. Third week. I washed them for the third time. Softer than the day they arrived. I stood in my bathroom holding a freshly washed towel thinking: every towel I've ever owned got worse with washing. These got better. How is that possible. Fourth week. My daughter — she's 17, she doesn't compliment anything, she communicates exclusively through eye rolls and one-word answers — came downstairs and said, "Mom, the towels in your bathroom are really nice." I almost called an ambulance. So. AITA? For stealing hotel towels on my wedding anniversary? For stuffing them in my suitcase under dirty clothes like a criminal? For using them in secret for three days like they were contraband? Half of you are going to say I stole property and should be ashamed. The other half of you have felt that feeling. You've stood in a hotel bathroom wrapped in something thick and warm and thought: why doesn't my bathroom feel like this? And you've gone home to your thin rough shedding towels and told yourself they're fine and kept on surviving every morning instead of enjoying it. I was that woman for 46 years. Towels that felt like sandpaper. Towels that shed lint everywhere. Towels I kept meaning to replace but never did because I was never important enough to make the list. Then I stood in a hotel bathroom in Charleston and remembered what it feels like when something touching your skin actually feels good. I didn't need to steal them. I just didn't know I could buy them. Now I do. Onuia. 600 to 800 GSM premium cotton. Refined terry weave. Same construction the Ritz Carlton uses. They don't shed. They don't go rough. They get softer with every wash. Same towels luxury hotels use. Now in my bathroom. Legally. They're running up to 60% off right now with free shipping. 30-day money-back guarantee. You don't have to steal hotel towels. You don't have to stuff them in your suitcase. You don't have to get a phone call from the front desk that makes your stomach drop through the floor. You just have to know where to buy them. Now you know. P.S. — I left a five-star review for the hotel in Charleston. It said: "Beautiful property. Amazing staff. Your towels changed my life and your front desk lady is a saint. I'm sorry about the towels. I mailed them back." They responded: "We know. You're the third." P.P.S. — My husband has started taking longer showers. I asked him why. He said, "I like the towel part now." Fourteen years of marriage and the man finally has an opinion about towels. P.P.P.S. — The Target towels are in the kids' bathroom now. My 17-year-old used one after using mine and said, "Mom, these towels are a violation of my human rights." I've never been prouder. Your move. onuia.com

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onuia.com

Sale Ends Tonight

The softest, thickest towels you'll ever own. Hotel luxury without the hotel price. This is the biggest discount we'll ever offer, up to 60% off, only for Summer's Day.