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“Oh my God, I don’t want to do it. I don’t want to do my laundry. But I need clean stockings and underwear.” I say to my roommate as she makes hot chocolate in our kitchen.

She looks at me bemusedly, like she always does when I have slightly ridiculous outbursts of passion, usually brought on by the inevitability of certain despised household chores.

“Yes, laundry is annoying to do. But you’ll get it done.”

I smile and walk into my bedroom, internally loathing the reality that clothes do not stay clean and that I must now deal with colorful piles of chaos and brave the dusty basement.
I turn my hamper onto the floor, bracing myself for the awful clutter of cotton and color, but only blue and black greets my eye. I breath out. Where are my whites? My yellows and reds? Why aren’t they adorning this sea of dark colors with complication?

Then I remember: they are tucked away in their own pillowcases, already sorted and ready for the washer. A new method a friend of mine recently taught me (after I whined to her about doing laundry one too many times).

I don’t have to brave the colorful chaos.
It is already vanquished.

But, I feel my body bracing itself, a new dread taking hold.

“Oh my God, I don’t want to do it. I don’t want to do my laundry. It’s way too easy now.” I say to the orderly pile below me.

It says nothing back and I laugh as I pick up my first load and walk towards the basement. As much as I hate doing laundry, I’m apparently going to miss whining about the process.

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