“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.
Poetry & Pushpins 