Piles of it are everywhere.
Like pillars of ungodliness, towers of immorality and skyscrapers of bastardliness (that wasn’t even a word one minute ago), folded laundry decorates my living room like scabies on a child.
One night every two weeks goes like this, each being the worst night of my life.
Yes, my sporadic fits of laundry-doing seem to be getting more painful as the years proceed.
It’s a reason to move to a nudist colony, really. I could do it. Anything to avoid laundry.
My thread-washing routine is currently this:
- Put a load of clothing that have colors in the washer. Add soap, softener and turn on the machine. Go to bed.
- The next night, put the clothing with colors in the dry with 57 fruit-scented dryer sheets. Turn it on. Add another load of clothing with colors to the washer. Add soap, softener and turn on the machine. Go to bed.
- The next night, take the clothes in the dryer out of the dryer. Dump them in a chair in the living room. Take the second load of clothes with colors out of the washer. Put them in the dryer with more than 57 dryer sheets because I noticed the first load didn’t smell enough like apple mango tango. Turn it on. Add white clothes in the hamper to the washer. Add soap, softener and turn it on. Go to bed.
- The next night …
It goes on like this over the course of nearly a week. Eventually the clothes on that chair in the living room become a mountain that starts to crumble, bit by bit, as I hunt for socks, underwear or – worse yet – some of my daughter’s tiny articles of clothing. Before I know it, there’s a giant pile of stress glaring at me – bullying me – each time I walk into the living room.
When I do work up the nerve to fold the laundry, I spend as much time reconsidering the decision/thinking of something else to do/wondering if there’s more to life/devising a shortcut that’ll never work as I do getting the job done. Foolishly, I tend to do this on a night I choose to scrub the tub, dust or some other type of housework that involves finger-peeling chemicals. So I end the chore with gashes and dry skin on my hands.
But that’s nothing compared to the psychological beating I’ve taken.
With a job like that, I can usually count on it taking 90 minutes of my time. Since there’s so much laundry between my daughter and me, I have to stand in order to put each article of clothing in the appropriate piles arranged all over the living room – the entirety of which they occupy with pride like some sort of sneering militant.
(Thirty percent of it ends up getting washed again because leaving it wadded like a discarded napkin for three days leads to incurable wrinkles.)
This is usually an adequate opportunity for me to reflect.
- What has my life become?
- Will I ever stop sweating so much that I don’t need to wear three shirts per day?
- I hope the house catches on fire.
- I should just throw this stuff away.
- Is there really a reason to fold underwear?
- I would seriously rather spend this time in Hell.
Putting the parts of the masterpiece in their appropriate drawers and on hangers always seems like it’d be the highlight, since that’s the last step of a task I’ve made far too arduous, but it’s not. By then I am exhausted and hate my life. Sometimes I’ll just leave the piles sitting in the living room and not invite anyone over for three days.
THERE IS A PARALLEL to life I draw nearly each time I do laundry. I know it’d be better if I could just do one small load per night. I know the reason it’s so awful to me is because I put it off, put it off, think of another way to do it and put it off some more.
At some point, I have to address the matter. I need to take action someday. After all, it’s not going to take care of itself.
That, drunkards, scalawags and anyone else who reads my blog, should go for everything we face. Waiting for something to improve or disappear on its own or for someone to know we care won’t speed up the process if it requires action on our part. Joe Paterno, we learned recently, found out the hard way that at some point we have to address things.
The longer we wait, the more difficult it gets.
The time to take action is now.
(I'm going to read this in a few days when that hamper starts to get full.)