Laundry Ain’t My Bag, Baby
Tuesday, August 24th, 2010By Glinda
It is a myth that all mothers know how to do laundry just by dint of being mothers. I don’t know any woman who doesn’t have some sort of laundry mishap in her recent past. If you tell me that you don’t, I will nod my head, but secretly believe you are lying.
I’ve been doing laundry since my early high school days, when I would complain to my mother that she didn’t wash my uniform shirts often enough as they were white and whites were usually the smallest load, thus getting the least amount of washing machine face time. So, tired of my whining, she made me do my own from that point on. If had only known what I was getting into, I just would have worn the dirty shirts over again.
I think my main problem is that I dislike laundry’s multiple stages, all of them distasteful. First you’ve got your pre-treatment phase for stains. Then you’ve got to sort the laundry according to water temperature/colors. Finally, you get to put them in the washing machine, only to have to transfer them to the dryer an hour later. Take them out of the dryer, and you think you would be finished, right? Wrong. You’ve still got to fold them/put them on hangers and then you STILL need to put them away. That isn’t even taking into account anything that has to be ironed. I personally think ironing should be outlawed.
Laundry has tried to be the boss of me, but I won’t allow it. I refuse to spend a fourth of my life dealing with clothes. I mean, I like clothes and all, but I’ve got the rest of my life to live, thank you. My children would like to see me sometimes without clothing in various states of cleanliness surrounding me.
So what’s my solution to the endless drudgery?
I make my husband do it.
A simple, satisfying, and rather painless solution that has the added bonus of me being able to yell at him if anything goes wrong.
