It's strange how there's a certain peace in folding laundry. In finding the partner for a sock and stacking the folded shirts in a pile. I figure I must do about 6 loads of laundry a week, more if it's time to do the sheets and towels. Dirty clothes in, clean clothes out. They don't fold themselves. They don't go back to their closets and drawers by themselves.
Whoever said that there's nothing certain in life but death and taxes left out laundry.
No sooner do I empty the hampers are they filled again.
Yet, I don't really mind doing the wash. Thank goodness for the washer. I'm sure I'd have a much different attitude if I had to do stuff by hand. In my life, if it can't survive the washer, it does not deserve to be worn. Also, ironing is a VERY SPECIAL OCCASION ONLY deal. Sometimes I wonder if people look at M's pants sometimes and wonder, "How can his wife let him leave the house in those?" Little do they know that 'his wife' hung them up on the hanger in that condition, ready to do.
I guess I have this false hope that hanging will help straighten out the worst of the wrinkles.
I sit here typing, glancing over to my mountain of folded clothes and at the basket of whites staring me in the face. Lots of socks need homes.
Time to go find them.
Yes, I know. 'She finally decides to blog again and it's about LAUNDRY?' What can I say? The muse came upon me and I had to sit down and go with the flow.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment