Laundry day is that awkward transition point between “I have absolutely nothing to wear” and “Where the heck am I supposed to put all this stuff?” It’s the one day of the week… month… year that hot yoga shorts or bikini bottoms work just fine as underwear because my cats can’t tell the difference anyways.
It’s on this day that nudists seem less crazy.
Dirty clothes propagate like bunnies in the darkness of the wicker hamper. It’s no coincidence that the drying rack shares a name with a medieval torture implement. My missing socks ran off with my hair elastics and bobby pins.
Single socks aren’t the only things to have disappeared. I am in the Laundry Protection Program. I can hide from it forever, or as long as I’m willing to pretend I own an impressive collection of identical skirts. I am notorious for my laundry related procrastination. My son told someone at the grocery store that laundry tabs are for making clothes not stink when mommy has forgotten about them – AGAIN. I’m sure my mother of the year award just got lost in the mail.
I did find something interesting in the laundry this week. It had been missing for some time and was just replaced as a Christmas gift. Once upon a time, my son wanted to talk on the phone privately and wandered off with it. The handset was then missing in the Bermuda Triangle that is our apartment, presumed dead (like the battery when I tried to page it.)
He insists that he returned it to me. Based on its co-location with my bedding in the dryer when it was finally recovered, he’s probably right. My current hypothesis is that it got wrapped up in the sheets when I stripped the bed last. The good news is I have clean linens and pretty new cordless phone, so I’m going to call that a win.
The nice thing about the ritual of washing clothes is that it allows me to pretend to be an elite climber, vanquishing Mount Laundry without the benefit of an oxygen tank or one of those cool grappling hooks.
Fantasies aside, I have to accept that this phase of my life is more 27 loads of laundry than 27 dresses. It’s a bit like in the movies, because laundry day is life imitating art. When I’m folding the ten hundred millionth pair of tiny jeans, I feel just like a character on Groundhog Day. Except I’m wearing hot yoga shorts as underwear, wishing I were a nudist.