It's a Wash

I hate doing laundry. I’m mighty lucky, therefore, that for the past 25 years, my loving partner has done 99 and 44/100 percent of it. She claims she likes to do laundry, which is an obvious fabrication, but it provides me with an excellent excuse to let her do it all.  Far be it from me to deprive her of something she enjoys.

When I was single, I did my laundry only when absolutely necessary, which was not a moment before my supply of clean underwear was completely exhausted. My dread was so intense you would have thought I had to carry it two miles to a stream and beat it on a rock, instead of taking a short trip (on foot or by car, depending on where I lived) to a laundry room or laundromat, sit around while it washed, sit around while it dried, fold it up, and take it home.

Once I finished doing the laundry, I would always think to myself, “Well, that wasn’t so bad.” But that did not encourage me to do it more often or more cheerfully.

Nowadays, the only trip I’d have to take is to the basement. I wouldn’t even have to take the clothes down there. Items dropped down a chute in the little bathroom will land right on top of the washer, or right in it, if the lid is open. I wouldn’t even have to carry the full laundry baskets back upstairs. Our hired girl will do that when she comes.

And on top of that, I’m retired now, home all day while my loved one goes to work to earn us a living. Shouldn’t I relieve her of this burden? I suppose. But I hate doing laundry.

Nevertheless, I went downstairs yesterday and did a load of whites. I played Tetris on the Nintendo in the basement family room while I waited for it to finish, which made the time fly by.

I did it partly to assuage my guilt, I admit, and partly just to show that my heart's in the right place.  I was also out of white socks.

And when I finished it, I thought, “I guess that wasn’t so bad.”