Picoseconds after yesterday’s post hit the ether-sphere, I received an email from my partner telling me quite emphatically that I had rendered her speechless by accusing her of mendacity. Obviously not lacking for words, she went on to compound the deceit by saying, and I quote, “I love doing laundry. I really do.”
That is patently ridiculous. Nobody loves doing laundry.
What is there to love about it? The blue splash of detergent hitting the bottom of the wash tub? The smell of Clorox2? The cushy softness of the lint-trap fuzz?
My mother used to say she liked to clean house. Another bald-faced lie. Nobody likes to clean house. I am living proof of that.
What my mother really liked, I think, was the result. She liked a clean house. She took pleasure in knowing that she had labored to make it so. But she cannot really have meant she liked scrubbing floors and cleaning toilets.
My partner is forthright and honest in all things, so I must concede that she does not utter this untruth with malice aforethought. I believe she is merely delusional, in the same way my mother was about cleaning the house. I am sure it is the results that she loves when she has completed the washing and drying and folding of the clothes and the linens and the throw rugs.
But love it? No. That is absurd.
No comments:
Post a Comment