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A wise man, or a wise woman, once came to the insightful observation that it was best to "be the dumbest person in the room." 

In the advertising arena, this can prove to be quite challenging. Particularly when meetings often involve 2 dozen participants. All of whom with unspecified duties. And none of whom can identify Willy Mays, Louis Jordan or even Spiro Agnew.

However, if the room in question is even smaller, let's say a closet, and let's get even more accurate and suggest it's a linen closet, then I have no problem claiming superior ignorance.

Turns out, at the ripe age of 65, I have come to discover I have lived a clueless life when it comes to the panoply of linens and linen-adjacent products. This was made clear to me when on a recent occasion Ms. Muse asked me for a hand towel.

"Hand towel? Those must be smaller than the bigger towels that I use for drying off after a shower," I thought quickly.

"No, honey, that's a face towel, " she replied as I apparently opened the lid on a Pandora's box of cluelessness.

Turns out, and I seriously had no idea or paid any attention to this, that just as there is a taxonomy that help us identify animals, plants and plants that eat like animals (Venus Flytrap), there is an equally sophisticated system of classification for towels. 

Indeed, I have been making the cardinal mistake of packing a bath towel instead of a beach towel for my almost daily swims at the nearby Culver Plunge. Or the not-so-nearby Rose Bowl Aquatic Center. Or my new favorite pool and very much not nearby, Palm Springs Swim Center.

I'm also more than a little embarrassed to admit that in my haste and ignorance I've even brought a dish towel to my excessively sweaty Peloton workouts.

I know as much about towels as Trump knows about windmills. Or big wet islands, with respect to water.

But wait, it gets worse.

It may be hard to believe, but I have gone my entire life sleeping on beds without a top sheet! I'm a non-Top Sheet person. This is an endless source of amusement -- and bemusement -- to Ms. Muse. 

And while she can hardly understand how I arrived at my current station in life without top sheets. The explanation is quite simple -- I grew up that way. 

My mother came to America when she was 17 years old and was literally fresh off the boat. Her working class roots in the hardscrabble streets of Paisley Scotland meant the Sampson-Horn Park family (of the storied MacDonald Clan) often went without all of life's niceties, like edible meat, firewood and top sheets.

And now? Well now I am learning to sleep under an 800-thread count linen covering. 

I'm living the American dream.