Perfect Thing: My 90s-Era Shammy Towel

From Chia Pets to a deep desire to get “slimed” on national television, the most memorable mainstays of my nineties childhood feel like something out of a fever dream. “Did that really exist?” I whisper to myself as my fingers fly over the keyboard, desperately seeking proof that someone else on the Internet had the same niche experience that I did.

That’s exactly where I found myself earlier this week, frantically flipping through the files of my memory to accurately identify the name of the quick-drying, absorbent towel made from unspeakably weird fabric that lived in my Speedo backpack for a decade. I grew up competing on my local swim team, and my favorite piece of swimming gear was called a sammy—unless it was a shammy? Or maybe a chamois? The Internet, disappointingly, can’t agree either, another Berenstain Bears situation to mystify us all.

Regardless, my shammy (the name that feels right in my heart and soul) was my constant companion during years of swim team grind. Neatly contained in its slim plastic tube, the shammy waited patiently to be unfurled after summer team practice, during the all-out race from the freezing outdoor pool to the heated sanctuary of the locker room showers.

For the uninitiated, a shammy was about the size and shape of a hand towel—but instead of terry cloth, it was made of synthetic microfiber that defied logic and expectations. The material was at once plush and thin, silky and almost suede-like, pliable yet strong. The real mystery was in how this tiny towel could somehow absorb every ounce of water from your soaking wet body—but after a quick wring, your shammy was restored to bone-dry perfection.

With shammies in hand, nine-year-old girls became peacocks in neon one-pieces, flapping our miniature towels and performatively dabbing the water droplets off our arms. The artsiest among us would find ways to make our shammy look tie-dyed by strategically wringing it out in distinct patterns (again, it was the nineties).

Temporarily warm, we’d trudge to the diving well, taking turns doing the most mediocre front dives you could imagine. The highlight of each strut down the low dive board? Flamboyantly tossing your shammy into the pool, where it would patiently float on the surface until you retrieved it on your way to the ladder.

I was never an elite swimmer, to be honest. At practice, I’d get lapped by the taller, faster girls in my lane. My shammy was the perfect distraction when I needed the emotional support of my childhood blanket, but in a cacophonous room with the humidity cranked to 80 percent. Did my shammy occasionally dab a tear under the guise of wiping water from my face? I’ll never tell.

I haven’t been on a swim team for nearly 20 years, but my parents always promised me that “when you’re an adult, you’ll be so glad you know how to swim.” I scoffed, but unfortunately for my ego, they were absolutely right. I now swim laps weekly for an hour or so at my gym. So much about the experience of swimming is the same as it was when I was nine—the muted sounds and distorted sights of being underwater, the goggle lines and swim cap headaches, the kickboards and fins that pile up poolside.

But I’ve yet to see anyone with a shammy, and it’s recently occurred to me that owning a shammy as a 36-year-old would probably heal my inner child. If only I could figure out what search term to use.